


By Fate Or Free Will

by BAPWarrior118



Category: Buffy the Vampire Slayer, Supernatural
Genre: Adult Content, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Awesome Missouri, Azazel's Special Children, BAMF Women, Banter, British Slang, Brotherly Bonding, Cameos, Canon-Typical Violence, Comics? What Comics?, Crossover, Crossovers & Fandom Fusions, Dean is So Done, Everyone Needs A Hug, Explicit Language, F/M, Family Fluff, Female Character of Color, Female Friendship, Fluff and Smut, Foreign Language, Friendship, Hugs, Innuendo, Minor Canonical Character(s), Mutual Pining, People Change People, Platonic Cuddling, Platonic Female/Male Relationships, Platonic Soulmates, Potentially Offensive Language, Prophetic Dreams, Protective Bobby Singer, Protective Dean, Protective OFC, Protective Sam, Psychic Abilities, Rewrite, Sam Winchester's Demonic Powers, Sam has a hair kink, Sam has a name kink, Sam is a Little Shit, Sass, Satire, Saving People Hunting Things, Sexual Humor, Sibling Bonding, Slayer Handbook, Snark, Soul Bond, Strangers to Lovers, Strong Female Characters, Team as Family, Vampire Slayer(s), fun times, lots of hugging, so much sass
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-09-10
Updated: 2018-08-05
Packaged: 2018-08-14 07:52:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 38
Words: 385,324
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8004424
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BAPWarrior118/pseuds/BAPWarrior118
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In the year 2003, a witch unleashed a powerful spell that drastically altered the fates of thousands of girls and women around the world. Some were killed. Some were protected. Many went about their lives or deaths unknowing of their transformed purpose. However, each were meant to be soldiers in the war against evil. Each were meant to tip the scales in the favor of good. For one in particular, there would have been no tipping of the scales… if not for some higher being’s determination to piggyback not only on the spell, but on the things that had already been set in motion by demons.</p><p>OR</p><p>In which the Winchesters meet the original breed of hunter, causing tiny ripples that turns their world on its head. And brings forth the winds of change. For better or worse.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Premonition

**Author's Note:**

> I seriously considered not stepping into this fandom, but I can't control my mind, so here it is and here we go! This is a crossover fic, but I'm not sure if I'm going to add characters from the other fandom. The thing is: I was watching Supernatural while reading this other fandom's fanfictions, so... This is the result. 
> 
> This does take place in the middle of season 1. Not joking, I went all the way back to when the boys were adorable and relatively innocent.

Dean smiled, happily ignoring his brother as he rambled on about which jobs they should take. He wasn’t actively _not_ listening to Sam—well, maybe he did ignore half of what his brother said most of the time—but the chips in his mouth were too delicious to ignore. It was a shame this small town was the only place to get them. Stocking up on the small bags of chips seemed like a good idea. “Hey, do you know how long the expiration for chips is?” Dean asked out loud. His brother only answered with silence. He looked up from his place on the bed to see the pinched look Sam was giving. It was a look he was used to seeing—pursed lips, glare, and knitted eyebrows. The works. Dean had affectionately dubbed it as ‘The Bitchface.’

“Have you been listening to _anything_ I’ve said?” Sam asked, a frown working itself onto his face.

“Of course I have, Sammy!” Dean replied in mock offense. “Something about an old lady dying… mysteriously?” The look did not change on his brother’s face. “Not mysteriously then?” Sam sighed heavily, eyes returning back to whatever newspaper article he had in his hands. If his hands weren’t already occupied, surely they would be on his hips.

“Dean…! I’m trying to find a decent route and you’re thinking about chips?!”

“To be fair, they’re _really_ good. Salty with just a hint of sweetness at the end. Genius.”

Sam opened his mouth, most likely to rant more—and Dean was fully prepared to tune him out again—but words never came. Instead, his brother sharply inhaled and stared wide-eyed at him. No, not at him. Through him. Dean called out to his brother, but Sam remained frozen in place. Just to make sure, he looked behind him to see if his brother had seen a strange entity on the wall. There was nothing there but a bad paint job. Dean hurriedly moved into a standing position and crossed the room over to where his brother stood. He called out his name several times, snapping his fingers in his face for good measure. It did not work.

Sam continued to stare at nothing for another five seconds. Then the breath left him and he blinked rapidly, gaze darting around as he nearly panted. As the concerned older brother, Dean immediately demanded to know just what the hell had happened. Finally, Sam’s breath evened out and his eyes turned to him. “Dean, I… I think I just had a vision,” he said. “Someone’s in danger.”

“Again?” Dean resisted rolling his eyes. “I mean, but you’re _awake_. I thought these weirdo visions only came when you’re asleep.”

“Oh wait, let me just get out the handbook on visions, and I’ll get back to you."

“Leave the sarcasm to me, Sammy.”

Ignoring him, Sam went over to his already packed belongings. He pulled out his laptop, then sat down on his bed. “It was like… multiple visions, though. There were flashes—I could barely keep up, but…” Dean watched his brother lift the screen of his laptop and immediately began typing. “There was one that stood out. A girl, and she was running away from something.”

“How do you know she wasn’t running _to_ something?” Dean asked. Sam just gave him his pinched look again. This time, the older brother could not stop his eyes from rolling. “Fine—you have any idea where this girl is?” Sam dropped his eyes back to the screen, and then turned his laptop around so that he could see. On the screen was an image of a giant purple bird—a mascot by the looks of it. “High school mascot?”

“College, actually,” Sam corrected. He used the mouse pad to click on the image. The name of the university popped up. “I think this is where to find her. The mascot walked by in the vision."

“Looks like we’ve got our route then,” Dean muttered. Sam nodded his head and shut his computer. “Hey, are we really going to investigate every time you have one of these psychic moments?”

“These psychic _moments_ are the reason a family is safe, Dean,” Sam stated. “And we got to see mom, so…” Dean lowered his head, knowing his brother was right. “We don’t know where these abilities come from, but if it helps people along the way, then yeah, we’re going to investigate. Every time.”

Sighing, Dean shut his eyes for a moment. “Fine,” he said. Truthfully, he didn’t like that his brother had these visions. As if their lives weren’t already far from normal, life decided add psychic powers to the mix. Hell, they might even be distractions. But he couldn’t deny that they did help. And seeing their mom again, even if she had been a spirit, was actually pretty… nice. “Let’s go to Ashland, Ohio.” Sam stood up, preparing to put his laptop back up. “But can we stop at a store first to get some more of those chips?” The reply only came in the form of an annoyed grunt.

 

0-0

 

Sam was on edge. He had been ever since the vision had come to him. It was unlike any other vision he had had before. For one, like Dean had mentioned, it was the first time he hadn’t been asleep. Did that mean his abilities were getting stronger? He hoped for a no. Eventually, he planned on breaking free from this life. After all this was over, he was going back to school. He would move on and live his own life. Sam did not look forward to that conversation with Dean. It would be an argument. Maybe several. In the end, though, his decision would be final.

For now, he would use these strange abilities for as long as he was in this life. Another thing about this latest vision is the amount of things he had seen. Normally, the dreams consisted of one thing. This particular vision had been like a bundle, centering around one girl, separated by flashes. Like had had told Dean, the visions happened too quickly for him to make out anything, except for two in particular. The girl walking out of a building, talking to the giant purple bird. And then the same girl running away from something in the middle of the night. Those two had happened slower than the others, but Sam was sure he had seen her face in the other visions.

Lastly, there hadn’t been any pain. Normally, he would wake up with a searing headache like a drill had been jammed through his brain. The effects of the headaches had always been lingering. He hadn’t told Dean about that, and he honestly didn’t want to. Headaches, he could handle, so there was no point in having his brother worry even more than he already did. This vision didn’t have pain, fear, or sense of dread. Not even a sense of urgency despite seeing the girl running for her life. Instead, an unknown sensation swept throughout his body. It felt as though his entire being took its first breath.

If he had shared that with his brother, more likely than not, Dean would feel the need to mock him for it. Sam already felt apprehensive. He didn’t want to add annoyance to that. So he had spent the car ride mostly silent, contemplating what the set of visions could mean. It hadn’t been until they reached the town had they started a plan. The main concern was finding the girl before anything happened. Also, they had to, at least, have an idea of what they could be facing. They had spent hours researching in their hotel room.

They hadn’t come up with anything. Sure, Sam did most of the research—he was quite sure that Dean only pretended—but there had been no freak accidents, local legends, or suspicious sightings. They hadn’t been able to find anything on the girl either. Since there hadn’t been a name to tie in with the vision, there hadn’t been much to go on. So that’s why they found themselves at a party one of the fraternities was throwing. It was a Saturday, so college parties were common. It would be a chance to gather information from the students.

So far, though, the only information Dean had thought worthy of attention was that the college was ranked in the top ten for best food. His brother planned on pickpocketing for access to the cafeteria. Sam, himself, hadn’t had any luck either. All of the people had spoken with ultimately replied with ‘Nothing ever happens in Ashland.’ Sighing in slight frustration, Sam stuffed his hands into his jacket pockets. Despite the lack of information on strange occurrences, he had been keeping an eye on the mascot since arriving at the party. The giant eagle had been in the vision. Eventually, the costume would lead to the girl.

“Hey! We’re out of drinks! Tuffy go get some more snacks!”

The exclamation caused Sam to push himself from the wall he had been leaning against. The mascot had hopped from the seat on the couch, and with a salute headed for the front door. Sam took a glance at the place he had last seen his brother. Dean was still chatting up a pretty blond with a skirt that was just shy of being too short. Not wanting to interrupt, Sam moved over to the door. He would call his brother if something happened.

With that thought in mind, he headed out into the night, making sure to stay a short distance away from ‘Tuffy.’ The mascot walked at a brisk pace away from the fraternity houses. Sam followed for a good five minutes before the purple bird came to a stop outside of a building. It looked as though it went with the campus because of the purple and gold paint. Sam stayed across the street and watched the mascot open the door. Instead of going in, it appeared as if he were holding it open. Seconds later, a girl came out, nodding to the bird in thanks.

Sam held his breath for more than a few seconds. It was her—the girl in his vision. She patted the mascot on the back as she moved by. Her mouth moved with unheard words, but he focused on her shirt. It was the exact same cerulean shirt with purple palm trees that she had been wearing as she ran away in his vision. Whatever was going to happen would happen _tonight_. Sam quickly pulled out his cell phone and sent a short message to his brother. _Found her. Will call if anything changes._

Slipping his phone back in his pocket, he began to trail after the girl. She seemed to be heading away from campus. Instead of following at a short distance as he did with the mascot, Sam decided to stay back as far as possible without losing sight of her. He wanted to avoid detection from her as well as any would be pursuers. She didn’t look back not once. In fact, she didn’t really pay attention to her surroundings at all. Sam sometimes wished he had that type of ignorance. To not have to question every noise. To not have to look over his shoulder. To not instinctively reach for salt at the slightest change in wind.

Unfortunately, with being raised by John Winchester, those luxuries seemed out of reach. Sam frowned, watching the girl enter a bar. He looked behind him. The college campus was still visible from his point of view. Maybe ten minutes away? If something happened, it wouldn’t take his brother long to reach him. He turned his gaze back, wondering if he should approach the girl at all. According to his vague visions, she wouldn’t be in trouble while she was here.

Sam decided to scout the area first. He walked around the building, counted the vehicles—just two—and listened for any strange noises. So far, nothing seemed unnatural. It was a warm, quiet night. Only crickets seemed keen on filling his ears with noise. Finally, finding nothing out of the ordinary, Sam pulled the door open to the entrance. The inside wasn’t just a bar. There were tables and booths, too. Bar and grill, most likely. Two people sat at the bar. Another was watching the large television—basketball—while eating from a pile of wings.

He didn’t see her yet and briefly wondered if she worked here. Then he actually did spot her. At the far end of where the booths were lined up. She sat there, quiet and unassuming, completely focused on the book in front of her. It was pretty dim, so if he hadn’t been looking, he probably would not have noticed her at all. Even with the bright red band that held her dark hair back, she seemed to just blend in. Sam breathed out slowly, and then began making his way over. Because he did not know how to start a conversation with her, he almost walked right pass. However, he caught a glance at the text she was reading.

“Is that _Latin_?” he blurted out, unable to control how incredulous his voice sounded. She blinked once as though comprehending that someone had spoken to her. Then, without looking his way, she parted her lips.

“You think this is bad,” she began, slight chuckle in her voice. As though she found his question mildly amusing. Like it wasn’t the first time she had been caught reading a foreign—dead—language. “Try Korean. Fun to talk, confusing to read. Latin is so much easier.” Her gaze finally shifted from the text and traveled slowly up his body before settling on his face. There was a flash of something within her dark brown eyes, but it was gone too fast for him to guess. Her expression settled on confusion.

“Why are you reading Latin?” Sam questioned. “Do they teach that here?”

“Oh, no… This isn’t a school book. It was a gift from my father,” she answered. Briefly, her eyes turned to the page. A red painted nail marked her place. “I always end up reading it before going to bed.” When she looked back at him, the confusion was gone. Sam hadn’t realized he had been tense until his body relaxed. “Sorry—do I know you? Your face seems familiar…”

“I don’t think so,” he answered. “Just got to town, and I’ve never been here before. I think I just have one of those faces.” She nodded in understanding before shifting her eyes back to her book. “You know, I know a bit of Latin myself.”

“You do…? Not many people would even want to.”

“My dad made me learn when I was younger.”

“ _Shyeah_ —my dad’s the reason I started learning languages.” She looked his way again, a slight smile on her face. Then she glanced at the seat opposite of her. “You want to sit? I’m not trying to get a crook in my neck from looking up at you.” Sam blinked once, and then nodded his head. This was great actually. Maybe if he could distract her long enough, he could prevent her from being targeted in the first place. He slid into the booth as she closed her book. “So what brings you to Ashland?” He had half a mind to tell her. For whatever reason, he had to actually stop himself from answering truthfully.

“Nothing in particular,” Sam replied. “My brother wanted to go on a road trip. It’s one of our stops, I guess.”

“Here…? Nothing ever happens in Ashland.”

“So I’ve been told… a lot.” She picked up on his small exasperation and grinned at him, revealing the slight gap between her two front teeth. It was almost trivial with the way her entire face lit up. Sam found himself returning the smile. “Do you usually read Latin books here?”

“Just on the weekends. My neighbor listens to screamo music until around 2AM, so you can imagine the distraction that causes right before bed.”

“Can’t you tell him to stop?"

“His aunt owes the building.”

“ _Ouch_.”

“ _Shyeah_ —not exactly an ideal situation, but the rents cheap, so what can you do?”

“What do you do on weekdays?”

“Work. He works, too, but at night, so I can sleep peacefully.”

“So you don’t actually go to the college…?”

“ _Nah_! Took two years, decided it wasn’t for me, and quit. Father wasn’t too thrilled with me. Kept the job much to the chagrin of actual students.” She grinned again, unapologetic to the plight of students that could potentially pay their way through college with her job. “What about you? You look like a studious sorta guy. What was your field of study?”

“… Law,” he stated. “I didn’t actually finish, though.”

“So you… decided to trade in a potentially high-paying job to _road trip_?” She raised a dubious brow. Well, with the way she asked, of course it wasn’t logical. But she didn’t know all the details. She didn’t know about the fire. Jessica. Or his dad. Sam opened his mouth to retort, but she interrupted, holding up her hands. “Hey, now, I’m not judging. To each their own.” He swallowed, wondering if she had seen the ire show on his face. Sam forced himself to relax again. “Hey, I’ll buy you a beer as an apology.”

“Alright,” he shrugged.

“Marlena! Can I get a cold one! And my favorite?!”

“Stop fucking yelling! It’s too damn late at night!”

“Says the one who’s yelling…” She rolled her eyes and returned her attention back to Sam. “Don’t mind the vulgarity—she loves me.” Despite the sarcasm, a smile managed to spread on his face. “So tell me about this road trip. Can I ask why you’re on it?” Per usual, whenever anyone asked about what he and Dean did on the weekly basis, his first instinct was to lie. Lying had gotten too easy over the years. Underneath the instinct, though, he wondered if it would truly be so awful to tell someone. How many people would still be alive right now if they only knew? Still, disbelief would be a common reaction, followed by laughter, and then maybe anger. So Sam opened his mouth to lie.

“My dad, actually—he’s kinda missing right now, so my brother and I are trying to find him,” he said. She gave him a look that told him to explain further. “He likes to… hunt cross-country, and we’re going to his favorite spots in search of him.”

“If he’s missing, shouldn’t the police be involved?”

“He’s not _really_ missing. He contacts us occasionally, with _orders_ -” He said that with a hint of bitterness. “-But doesn’t let us know where he is. We’re looking for him because we all have to do something together.”

“Wow… My father does stuff like that, too,” she muttered, crossing her arms. She leaned back in her seat and sighed. “Haven’t seen his face in two years, but he still calls to see if I’m still doing as he says. My father sounds similar to your dad.”

“I sincerely doubt that,” Sam remarked with a cynical chuckle. John Winchester was one of a kind, and if he wasn’t, his prayers went out to whatever family was stuck with someone like him. She knitted her brow and looked as though she had a comment, or two, but a beer was set in front of him, which diverted his attention. “Thanks,” he said to the waitress. He was ignored. Sam watched, startled as the two females began conversing in a language he could not recognize. It sounded like a very heated argument, causing him to look around uncomfortably. No one else in the bar seemed to care.

“Yes, ma’am,” she finally spoke in English, and then rolled her eyes. The waitress tittered softly before leaving the two alone. “God, that woman…”

“What was that about…? And what language was that?” Sam couldn’t help the curiosity he felt.

“Just something about my tab—unimportant.” She slid her glass in front of her with one hand and shoved the book off the table with the other. She then grabbed the straw that was left behind and dunked it into her clear liquid. Half of the glass was filled with bright red cherries. “Said she couldn’t wait to see my father again. Says he has a cute butt, so I demanded that she not talk about his butt in front of me.” She swirled her carbonated drink with the straw. “But I promised the next time he calls me, I would tell him about her obsession.”

“And the language? How many languages do you know?”

“That was German, and I know ten languages.”

“Ten…?! That’s impressive!”

“You think so…? There’s thousands of languages out there. My dad knew seventy-three,” she went on, seemingly ignoring his shock. She took a moment to take a sip. “And really, I only know eight other languages. I was counting English and ‘Proper English’ in there, too.” She gave air quotes for what Sam assumed was British. Unbidden, a chuckle burst from his lips. He supposed he had been a bit wrong about her. She wasn’t quiet or unassuming. Maybe she just _chose_ the quiet. It seemed as though she chose a lot of things in her life. It was envious. “Anyway, I’m serious—your dad and my father would get along. One time, he left me a voicemail telling me to retrieve this musty old book from our attic, and then called it a birthday present. He called to make sure I found it!”

“That’s nothing—my dad recently sent us coordinates to-” Sam cleared his throat. “-to find something for him—something he had left behind, and then told us to stop looking for him.” She giggled, showing her teeth again. He was finding it easier to smile. Taking swig from his bottle, he kept an eye on her smiling face. “When I was young, maybe nine, I told him there was something in the closet and his response was to give me a gun.”

“Was it _loaded_?” Her eyes seemed a bit brighter and more intrigued than before. He nodded his head in answer. Laughter burst from her lips and she tried to cover it with her hand. Sam had always recalled that memory with resentment, but hearing her laugh at it, maybe it wasn’t as bad as he had thought. “When I was fourteen, my father gave me a crossbow for Christmas.”

“What? Why would he do that?”

“I showed an interest in the Archery class my high school had. He took it upon himself to jump on that interest, and he made me learn how to use it. Fun times.”

“Sounds like an interesting childhood.”

“Sounds like I can say the same thing about you.” She raised her glass. “Sins of the Father?” The top of his bottle clinked with her glass.

“Sins of the Father,” Sam agreed. He wondered if she knew that phrase was a biblical reference and not from a song. After taking another gulp of beer, he set the bottle back down on the table. For a few moments, he watched her drink, occasionally plucking out a cherry by the stem. It suddenly occurred to him that he still did not know her name. Not knowing did not make him feel any less at ease. Still, at the back of his mind, there was a curiosity that wouldn’t go away. The visions he had had previously all seemed to have some connection. Did that mean this girl—woman—in front of him had a connection, too? Was he supposed to save her from a festering wound? That couldn’t be it. _Nothing ever happened in Ashland_. “Hey, can I ask you something?”

“You’ve been asking questions already,” she stated, giving him a pointed, teasing smile.

“Yeah, I guess I have,” Sam chuckled. “Are you from Ashland?”

“Not originally, no.” She tapped a cherry to her lips before ripping the fruit from the stem. She had done it to other cherries before devouring them. He tried not to become distracted by her actions. “My father moved me here when I was eleven. I was born and partially raised in Washington.”

“D.C.?"

“ _Nah_ , the state.”

“Why’d you move all the way to Ohio?” Sam asked. She didn’t reply right away. In fact, she hesitated. “I’m sorry if that’s too personal.”

“It’s fine,” she murmured, shaking her head. “If you weren’t so cute, I probably would have ended the conversation when you glared at me.” Sam felt his cheeks grow warmer, both embarrassed and flattered. He had _glared_? He looked away for a moment, letting her compliment sink in. She found him attractive. It wasn’t the first time that happened, but this felt a bit different somehow. He thought she was cute, too. … Sam waited for the inevitable guilt to rise. Whenever he had even thought of another woman in that way, he thought of Jessica, which instantly squashed whatever attraction he had for other women. Guilt. It hurt and twisted his insides. Until Jessica had justice, it wouldn’t be right for him to move on. But nothing came. No guilt or shame. “… So I guess I just stayed.”

Sam blinked once, and then realized she had been speaking. “I’m sorry, what?” She gave him a slightly annoyed look. “Sorry…” He gave her a sheepish smile and she rolled her eyes.

“I said my father wanted to raise me here—headquarters of nice people, he says,” she said. “Said it was the safest place. He told me to stay here even when he left, so I stayed like a good little daughter. Didn’t want to travel, anyway.”

“Safest place…? What was he trying to keep you safe from?”

“He’s just overprotective, that’s all. Being a single father couldn’t have been what he planned,” she answered with a nonchalant shrug. Huh. That was something. Images of his own father popped into his head. Of course, his dad could not have planned on raising Dean and himself the way he had if his mom hadn’t died. _Now_ he felt guilty. “Tell me some more about your road trip. Been to interesting places? Seen interesting things?”

“ _Heh_ … You might say that.”

“Tell me,” she urged with a grin.

So he did. At least, what he could, anyway. He omitted a lot of what he and Dean got up to on their road trip, but she quite enjoyed when he told her about the various prank wars he got into with his brother. He learned that she didn’t have siblings, so she said it sounded fun. He told her Dean was a pain in the ass most of the time, causing more laughter. They also talked more about their childhoods, focusing on the strange things their fathers made them do. It more or less turned into ‘Not as Good a Parent as They Could Have Been,’ type of debate. Actually talking out loud about it to another person—who wasn’t Dean—made those situations not as ire-inducing as they had been in the past. Despite the complaints, he could tell that she loved her father. And he felt the same.

Eventually, she ran out of cherries to eat. During the course of their conversation, Sam had had two beers. She had had six glasses of whatever she drank. He didn’t think it was alcohol, but he hadn’t asked. With a satisfied sigh, she slid the sixth glass against the table, shoving it towards the other five. “Well, it’s really late. I should get going.” She turned in her seat, picking up the book and shoving it into a large denim bag. She placed the strap on her shoulder before scooting out of the booth, prompting Sam to do the same. They stood across from each other, making him realize how short she truly was. Compared to him, she was _tiny_. Probably not exceeding 5’2. “You are _freakishly_ tall,” she remarked, eyes showing her teasing intent.

“Thank you,” he responded with a slight chuckle. Sam stepped aside, extending his arm out towards the exit. “Could I walk you home? It’s not a good idea to walk alone at night.” It was dark outside. She could still be in danger. He eyed her shirt. Despite the distracting conversation, he knew the job was still a priority. Brown eyes narrowed up at him, mockingly suspicious. He almost believed she would protest, but then she shrugged.

“And here they say chivalry is dead.” She walked forward, keeping her gaze on his form until he began to follow her. Once outside of the bar and grill, he walked by her side. On the way, they had chatted a bit—just about the college in general. Sam’s attention had been divided, though. While she had talked, he had been wary of every sound that had not come from her. With his eyes darting around, trying to locate an unknown entity, he had nearly tripped over himself as she led him upstairs. They had made it to her apartment door—room twelve. “Thanks for walking me home,” she addressed him.

Sam focused all of his attention on her and smiled. “It was nothing,” he replied. Nothing had attacked her. Maybe just being with her had stopped whatever had chased her in his vision. He had prevented anything from happening, and that was a relief. “Just glad I could make sure you’re safe.” She appreciated his words, even if she didn’t know the extent of what he meant. “Well, have a good night.”

She raised a brow, which made him halt. “What—that’s it?” Her question had been laced with incredulity and amusement. “What about what you came here for?” Sam opened his mouth, but words failed him. Had she known? About the visions? No. Of course she wouldn’t. She stepped closer to him, hand reaching up. Her palm touched his stomach and slid up to his chest, causing his shirt to rise. He shuddered under her contact and heat spread through his veins. Her fingers curled, gripping the front of his shirt. Slowly, she pulled him down to her eye-level. Sam’s eyes widened, grasping the meaning of her question. He could smell the cherries on her breath, and he felt himself stir in response. “Isn’t this what you came for?” Her lips brushed against his. Just a brush. A simple brush that had his mind reeling with visions—the same visions—of her. Only this time, the slower visions consisted of her holding him. Her smiling face. Her lips parting to speak his name. _Samuel_. Oh, _God_ … He had never liked anyone addressing him with his real name. But experiencing the vision of her saying his name was different and… desired. “Isn’t it?” she whispered, still a hair’s length away.

It was so easy to reach for her. So easy to close the rest of the distance. He returned her light kiss, cradling her face, palms against cheeks. And everything _breathed_. Oxygen filled him to the core and set his entire being alight. It did not remain a light kiss for long. He had tasted her, and he wanted more. She tasted like cherries. His hands slipped down her body to grip her hips. He pulled her against him, causing a gasp to escape between their lips. Sam couldn’t begin to think of which of them had let it go. He wanted— _needed_ this. Was _this_ … his? Whatever this was, did it belong to him? “Yes…” His pressed hard, opening her mouth to him. Opening himself to her.

To both questions.

His. Hers.

_Yes_.

0-0


	2. Breathe

Sam awoke, eyes unfocused on the white ceiling. He groaned lightly, reaching for his forehead. Blinking away the blurry, he slowly sat up. He breathed in deeply as his vision finally cleared. He was in a bed, wrapped in blue sheets, completely naked underneath. He remembered with perfect clarity what happened last night. His gaze traveled to the window to the right. Morning light peaked through the dark blue curtains. Sam sat up slowly, not wanting to disturb the woman beside him.

She slept peacefully on her back, one arm thrown across her midriff and the other curled over her head. One leg was not covered by the sheet, exposing her thigh. Her inner thigh. Sam swallowed hard, seeing her darkened flesh due to his bite. Several marks scattered on her thigh where he had bitten, licked, and sucked at her skin. He had tasted so much of her last night. Breathed in so much of her. It had felt like discovering. Sam couldn’t put it into actual words—not really. He had felt her all over him. He had felt her _inside_ him. That wasn’t normal. It couldn’t be normal.

Knowing that what happened couldn’t be normal did not deter him from staying right where he was. In fact, he moved closer to her sleeping form. Sam lied on his side, propping his head up with his arm and elbow. His other hand reached to lightly touch her nose. It twitched in response, causing a small smile to spread on his face. His fingertips traced her lips before sliding down further to her chin, her neck, stopping briefly to hold the blue and silver pendant of her necklace—was blue her favorite color?—and then moving on to her chest, in between her breasts, and finally settling his palm right above her navel. Without the sheet covering her, he could see the other marks he had left behind. He didn’t think he had ever been so aggressive with… with Jessica.

Sam removed his hand from the sleeping woman, and then moved to sit up again. He rubbed at his forehead and sighed deeply. He felt guilty. But the guilt didn’t come from being with another woman. It came from thinking about Jessica while lying next to another woman. When had his thoughts become so muddled? Was nine months all it took to move on—move on from the woman he intended to spend the rest of his life with? It felt incredibly shallow, but… Sam’s eyes drifted back to the woman beside him. Funny. He still didn’t know her name, but it didn’t seem to matter.

He lied back down, turning to nuzzle her neck. A gentle kiss to her vein. “ _Cherry_ ,” he murmured. As Sam didn’t know her actual name, he had begun thinking of her with that nickname. He could have asked. He had had plenty of chances last night at the diner. But by the time they had reached her door, it had seemed trivial. So having a taste of her led him to the nickname. Only in his mind, though. She might have become offended, and he did not want that to happen while they were _becoming acquainted_. A chuckle slipped from his lips. That had been quite the understatement.

Cherry suddenly groaned, causing Sam to freeze. She turned on her side, facing away from him. He squeezed his eyes shut, forcing his body to relax. He had no way of knowing if she would kick him out. The night was over and maybe she had expected him to be gone by now. Maybe she took home guys all the time and felt nothing about what went on. He hoped not. He heard her roll off the bed, and then stand. She groaned again, maybe stretching? Then he heard her footsteps heading away from the bed.

Moments later, her footsteps came back. Sam did not want to risk taking a peek. Then he heard her clear her throat in a pointed type of way. Reluctantly, he opened his eyes. She stood at the side of her bed, arms crossed over her chest. She now wore a large black t-shirt, which covered her thighs. Her brow furrowed, but she had a slight smile on her face. Not in trouble then? “ _Um_ … I don’t know the actual protocols for one night stands, but according to the movies, one of the two participates should be gone by now,” she said, cocking her head to the side.

“Yeah… _um_ … _heh_ …” Sam’s tongue darted out, wetting his lower lip. “I _uh_ … have this thing where I can’t function without, at least, ten minutes of cuddling?” Cherry laughed and uncrossed her arms. “Yeah, it’s real hindrance,” he said, chuckling along with her. A grin lingered on her face as she slowly crossed the distance and crawled into bed.

“Well, that was smooth,” she admitted, lying down beside him. Sam was quick to reach for her. She allowed him to pull her towards his body. “Bet you say that to all the girls on your little road trip.”

“No, actually… This is the first time I’ve… done this in a long time,” Sam replied. He shut his eyes and let her scent drift into his nose. Cherry squirmed a bit, but only to get in a more comfortable position. She sighed heavily, rubbing her nose against his neck. He shuddered lightly, feeling the sensation crawl across his skin.

“Are you lying?” she asked. Her teeth grazed his jaw. “Because there’s no need."

“I’m not,” Sam managed. He turned his head to look her in the eye. “You’re the first since… my girlfriend.”

“Girlfriend…?” She reared her head back and frowned. A scoff let her lips, and he felt her body tense. “Funny. You don’t seem like a _cheating_ type.” Cherry turned away from him, preparing to leave the bed again. Sam grabbed her from behind and held on tightly. “You-”

“Wait…! I’m not,” he told her. She didn’t relax. “My girlfriend… died… almost nine months ago. I haven’t been with anyone since. For a long time, it was just her…” After several moments, Cherry finally relaxed. Sam released an inaudible breath. “To be honest, it’s the reason I left school and agreed to the road trip with my brother.” She tensed again, but only to face him. They laid side by side, face to face, and he saw the sympathy in her eyes. He had seen it a lot since Jessica’s death, but the sincerity was more intense with her.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered. “It can’t be easy for you.”

Sam swallowed. Some days were hard to get through. Usually, a job would do the trick. Other times, though… “No,” he muttered. “I wanted to marry her, and now she’s gone. And…” He let go of his breath. “I’m sorry—you don’t want to hear me ramble about her.”

“Something tells me that you don’t talk about her at all,” Cherry said. She was right. He kept it bottled up. Locked in tight. He hid his feelings about what had had happened to Jessica. He hid a lot of things. Dean wouldn’t understand. And his brother was all he had right now. “But, no, I don’t _want_ to hear about your girlfriend,” she continued. “However, I do know a little something about grieving, and it’s never a good idea to keep those feelings to yourself. Anger or sadness, or both—keeping those emotions in is no good.” Was she speaking from experience? Sam suddenly wanted to know. “So… as a stranger, I’ll be willing to listen.”

Sam looked away from her earnest eyes for a moment. Once he collected himself, he began. Once he began, he couldn’t stop. He told her everything about Jessica. How they met. When they started dating. When he fell in love. It all just came pouring out. When he had gotten to how she died... Well, he didn’t tell her all of the how, but he did tell her about the fire. The official story had been that the fire killed her. Regardless, he had said he felt guilty. He should have been there. Ultimately, it had been his fault. Cherry hadn’t spoken as his story went on. She had just lied there in silence. She hadn’t even made a sound when he had held her just a bit too tightly.

He was still holding on to her rather tightly when he stopped talking. She just continued to quietly soothe him by sliding her hand up and down his back. It felt good. But he was curious as to why she was doing it. Sam was a stranger to her. She couldn’t treat every stranger like this. Just because she knew about grief…? Exhaling heavily, he finally opened his eyes. “Do you feel any better?” Cherry questioned. Sam nodded slowly. He actually did—like a weight had been lifted. Getting over what happen would take more time, he knew, but he _did_ feel better. She shifted her hand from his back to his head. Her fingers lightly massaged his scalp. He could not help the shuddering groan that left his mouth.

“Thank you,” he said. Cherry smiled, running a finger across his jaw. “What about you?”

“What _about_ me?”

“You… You have an ex or something?” Sam asked. She only frowned. “I mean, I just told you about Jessica. It’s only fair that you let something go, too.” She immediately stopped touching him. He did not like that. “You don’t… You don’t have to.”

“That’s…"

“Private—you’re right. I’m sorry.”

“ _Oculum pro oculo_ …” she said. Her pronunciation was spot on. Sam reached up, tucking hair behind her ear. Cherry sighed, and then shut her eyes. “… His name was Mike… Michael, actually,” she muttered. “He’s not important now.”

“What happened to him?”

It took her several moments to speak up. But in the end, she told him. Apparently, they had been high school sweethearts. She had been a freshman and he had been a sophomore when they had meant. They had stayed together all through high school, but had gone to separate colleges. She had stayed in Ashland, while had he moved to Cincinnati. Their six-year relationship had ended when she had found out about the cheating. He had gotten another girl pregnant. No wonder she had reacted the way she had. She had thought he was cheating on Jessica with her now. It made him feel incredibly uncomfortable. “… We don’t talk anymore,” Cherry finished.

“He was an idiot,” Sam blurted.

“So was I. I believed him. And I’m pretty sure I loved him.” Her jaw clenched. Then she sighed again. “But it’s… nice to tell someone, so thanks for listening.” Slowly, she focused her gaze on him. For a moment, she only stared. “I’ve… never told anyone that—never wanted to, but… there’s something about you.” Sam could hear his heart beat. He clenched his teeth, staring back at her. “It’s unnatural. How do I feel this comfortable with you?”

“I was going to ask you that,” Sam told her. “But… I think I like it.”

“I… I think I do, too.”

Sam smiled, warmth rushing to his cheeks. He caressed her cheek, tilting his head to kiss her. Soft and sweet slowly became anything but. Cherry let him remove the large t-shirt, causing him to realize she hadn’t bothered to put underwear on. She giggled against his lips as his hands found the undersides of her breasts. Then moaned as she felt his fingers flittering across her nipples. Her hips began to move against him—roll in a sensual manner like last night when she had been on top of him. Sam groaned, hands sliding down her body to position her to take him. All of him. Cherry gasped, rearing her head back. Sam chased after her lips with his own. His hands shifted to the bed, beside her side and head, to steady himself. Then he began to rock, matching her moans. She met his pace, thrust for thrust.

She wrapped her arms around him, hands at his lower back, urging him to go faster. Sam broke the kiss only to press his mouth to the side of her neck to muffle his grunts of pleasure. Cherry had no qualms about how loud she could get. Her delightful moans pierced his ears, and encouraged his pace. He wanted to hear his name—his breathy name tumble from her mouth. It felt like he wanted nothing more in this moment. But instead of whispering his name in her ear, demanding that she learn and scream it out loud, he kept his mouth preoccupied with her smooth skin.

Under the incessant hard tempo of their movements, Sam felt the strain of his body. He didn’t slow down. Another choked cry left her as her nails dug into his back. A perfect combination of pain and pleasure. He squeezed his eyes shut, feeling the pressure building within himself. Harder and deeper he went, bringing them closer. So close. So- With a shout, Sam spilled inside her. He barely heard her cry of desire over his own heavy panting. Slowly, his body lost the tension and he clearly heard her shuddering breaths in his ear.

Lazily, he slid his cheek against hers until his lips fell to hers. They kissed slowly and deeply, tongues winding around each other. They sighed through their noses, kissing for as long as possible. Sam felt her lips curl against his—smiling. He smiled, too, rearing back. Cherry whimpered as he moved away. Still, she released him so that he could lie down beside her. His eyes shut for a moment, trying to steady his breathing. He was hyper aware of her and immediately wanted to reach for her again.

“Whoa…” she nearly purred. Sam opened his eyes, and then turned his head to look. She appeared tired—thoroughly kissed and well spent. Flushed and sweaty, her dark hair had become plastered to her face. Unthinking, he shifted and reached to slide her hair away from her cheek. Cherry shut her eyes, pleased with his slight touch. Sam continued slide his fingers through her soft hair.

“I’m… I think I’m going to need fifteen more minutes of cuddling,” he mentioned. His words were awarded with laughter, followed by her snuggling up against his body.

 

0-0

 

Two hours later, Sam found himself at her door. He would have gotten there a lot sooner had he not been held up in her bathroom. The ten minute shower to save time had been more than just a ten minute shower. They had done like they had been supposed to for the most part, but all the touching they had done had led to… more. Still, his hair had been washed and he smelled clean. Sam couldn’t say he regretted it. Not one bit.

Cherry reared back from him, a smile on her face, lips still puckered a bit from the kiss. “Okay, let’s not get distracted again,” she suggested, though her fingers were still curled against his abdomen. Sam bit his lip before trying to get at her lips again. “Hey, don’t you have a brother waiting for you?” He sighed, though he did need the reminder. Dean might have worried himself into a panic. “And I also have things to do, so…” Her smile dropped just a bit. He saw the hesitation in her eyes. Without thinking, he grabbed her waist and pulled her toweled form against him again. She gave a surprised yelp as kissed her. “Bloody hell,” she murmured, slipping her hands around him. His hand slipped into her hair—still damp from wash—fingertips lightly touching her scalp. She shuddered against him, and he almost reached for her hair with the other hand. Only after a few moments did he release her.

“Goodbye,” Sam finally whispered. He swallowed hard, wondering why this was so difficult. This was nothing more than a one night stand. This was expected. They didn’t know each other’s names. They were still two strangers. Strangers that shared a lot of themselves, but strangers all the same. Cherry let out a shaky breath as her arms fell away from him.

“Goodbye,” she replied as she took a step back and lowered her gaze to the floor.  

Sam turned away from her and grabbed the doorknob. This was it. He would probably never see her again. Even though he was not okay with that. Everything inside was protesting his departure. But… He had to leave. They obviously lived two very different lives. This was just a pleasant surprise on what he thought was another job. With that thought in mind, Sam opened the door and walked out. He turned to shut the door. His hand did not leave the handle after the door was firmly shut. He sighed and pressed his forehead against the door. Cherry had been right.

This was not natural.

Sighing again, Sam finally moved to leave. He had spent too much time ignoring his cell phone. He shoved his hand into his pocket, drawing out his phone. He had set the ringer to silent, so he hadn’t realized that his brother had called him… twenty-seven times. With fourteen text messages. “A record,” Sam chuckled out. He also noticed the time. Almost eleven. Fourteen hours… Time sure flew. He clenched his jaw, and then began the trek to the hotel.

It took him more than thirty minutes to reach the hotel room. After two knocks, because Dean had the key, the door swung open and Sam met the furious gaze of his older brother. “Where the hell were _you_?!” he demanded to know. “I’ve called you like a hundred times!” The younger of the two resisted rolling his eyes at the exaggeration. Instead, he pushed pass Dean and headed into the room. He heard the door slam, but didn’t bother to turn back. “So what happened on your end?”

Sam plopped down on the bed, head to the side. He was tired, felt near drained, and already missing the way her sheets smelled. “Nothing,” he sighed out. It wasn’t a complete lie. “I stayed up all night-” He swallowed. “-watching her, and nothing happened. Just a regular night.” Nothing happened that Dean needed to know, anyway. “Nothing ever happens in Ashland.”

“Yeah, funny you should mention that,” Dean muttered. “I got a whole lot of it last night.” He crossed his arms. “But I found out something _did_ happen in Ashland. At least at the college.” Sam sat up, curious. He faced his brother, who had taken a seat on the adjacent bed, and hoped that this wasn’t about food. “Supposedly, a girl took a dive right off the roof of the library about two years ago.”

“What? No,” Sam said. “I would have seen something yesterday when we got to town.” There had been no mention of suicide in any paper he looked at, including the school’s paper. Besides, suicide was a form of violent death. There would have been an angry spirit getting revenge on the mortals who had wronged it. Strange things would have started happening.

“Yeah, only the school covered it up,” Dean continued. “Some chick tried to off herself at an upstanding school—no one wants that on the record, so off the record it went. It was all hush hush.”

“Someone had to have known.”

“Yeah, there were witnesses—all of them were given full-ride scholarships out of the blue—student loans wiped clean,” Dean stated. They were paid to keep quiet. Not exactly uncommon, but someone would have talked. How else could his brother find the information? “One of them was the girl’s roommate. I met her last night, got her talking.” Sam didn’t bother to ask how, and his brother looked just a bit disappointed that he hadn’t. “No one knows how she got up there or why she was up in there in the first place, but in the end, she jumped.”

“Okay, so if that’s true, why haven’t we come across signs of haunting? Her death would have made a very angry spirit. Two years and no other deaths occur?”

“That’s just it, Sammy,” Dean grinned with raised eyebrows. “She _didn’t_ die.” He had seen how tall the library was. There was no way anyone could survive a drop that high. Not even if they had been completely paralyzed. The disbelief must have showed on his face because his brother continued. “Three hours later, and she was fine. Her roommate didn’t actually see the jump, she just saw how the girl came back to their room bloody and limping. She literally slept it off.”

“That’s… What are you saying?”

“I’m thinking something demonic got to her,” he replied. “After the incident, the roommate said the girl changed. She stopped talking to people. She quit her job at the library, and a week later, she moved out of the dorm, stopped all contact.”

“You’re talking about possession? For two years?”

“Maybe longer,” Dean answered with a shrug. “The point is… This may be what we’re after. Or whatever is after that girl in your freaky vision. Maybe it was biding its time until now. I say we track down this girl for some answers and maybe an exorcism.”

“Is she even still here?” Sam asked.

“Not on campus, but she still works—a job at the school store,” Dean explained. “But I also got an address.”

“You got a name?”

“ _And_ a picture.” Dean went over to the table where Sam’s laptop had been opened and running. When asked if he had done anything else on his computer, his brother reply of ‘Nothing…!’ had come too quickly. Sam eyed him suspiciously, wondering if he, again, had to run an anti-virus scan. “Just look at the picture!” His brother sounded irritated as he handed over the laptop. He would definitely run a scan later. “Her name’s Tracee Noland—two e’s. She’s got an address not far from the school. We can go there first to see what we can find.” Sam focused on the screen only to lose his breath. Among other portraits of the school’s staff, one had the name Dean had given. The smiling face of Tracee Noland was familiar to him.

It was Cherry.

 

0-0

 

Tracee tilted her head to the side as she stared at her reflection in the full body mirror. Her eyes squinted, watching a frown spread on her face. Besides the obvious hickies adorning her skin, nothing looked different. Everything _felt_ different, though. This body of hers felt… owned? And that was all types of wrong. Despite the fact that she possessed it, it felt like it no longer belonged to her. This had never happened before. There had been other men. That guy, though, had been the first to get so far.

An eyebrow jumped in slight irritation. Only slight, though. The rest of it was giddiness. She hadn’t felt that in quite some time. Because of that, she had let that guy into her home, into her bed. She had let him inside. Three times. The last time, in the shower, had been… the most sensual thing she had ever done. So much touching and learning. She had found a few scars on his body. Clothed, she had assumed he was all skin and bone. But naked and wet, she had seen the toned muscle, just enough to form a four-pack and a delicious cut. He had seemed intrigued with her body, too. As if seeing it for the first time. He discovered quite a few sensitive places Tracee hadn’t known she had before. He had washed her hair. She had washed his. It had been a slow, enthralling process of intimacy that eventually led to another round of sex.

That had been different, too. The first two times had been, not quite rushed, but clearly both of them had wanted to reach that state of euphoria quickly. In the shower, it had been slow. Almost torture. He had slid in, nice and thick, from behind while his fingers worked her front. She had whimpered close to tears, but he had continued the slow assault and had planted kisses across her shoulders, the sides and back of her neck, and her ears. She had not known her ears were so sensitive until then. Tracee had soared to paradise at least four times before he finally came with her. It was unnatural.

“Or maybe I just missed having sex?” she muttered, hands lightly rubbing against her neck. The years had been rough, but making out with random men had always been enough to satisfy her. Actually, it was sending them away hot and bothered that made it worthwhile. That stranger had been an… outlier. It wouldn’t happen again. The hickies would fade pretty soon. She would forget about the stranger pretty soon. Most importantly, she would move on pretty soon. Sighing, Tracee stretched her neck, forcing herself not to think of that guy. Otherwise, she would need another shower.

She sighed again, leaving the towel where it lay. She needed to stop observing her body. She was already so behind on her schedule because of her unexpected overnight guest. She ran a hand through her still wet hair. It would take too long for it to air dry and straighten. She suppose she would have to braid it. It would be a quicker process. Tracee walked over to the wall where her schedule was hung. The ritual was set to begin in about an hour. If she used a blow dryer, she could still take the time to procure what she needed. She would rather lay in bed all day after what happened last night, but… the ritual was too important. And rather fun. So damn the sacrifices. She would continue to do it without fail.

 

0-0


	3. Ritual

“I don’t think we should be doing this.”

Dean rolled his eyes for the fifth time. Ever since he had shared his findings with his brother, Sam had been complaining about and protesting against any further investigation on the girl. Sam had always been hesitant about doing what needed to be done on a job, but he had never been this vocal about it. It had gotten annoying ten minutes ago. “We tried knocking. Obviously, she’s not home, so this is the only way in,” Dean explained. The lock finally clicked, causing a grin to spread on his face. He stood up to his full height and faced his brother. Sam was not as pleased with his older brother’s lock picking skills. “What’s the matter with you? We do stuff like this all the time.”

“It’s-” Sam shrugged and shook his head. “I didn’t feel anything bad. I _still_ don’t. Breaking in her apartment just doesn’t seem like a good idea.”

“It’s too late now,” Dean stated, pushing the door open. Behind him, his brother grumbled, but followed him in regardless. The first thing he noticed was the smell of the place. It wasn’t bad, but it was familiar to him. He did not know why. The second thing was the _lack_ of things. Sure, there was a couch—white with blue cushions—and a blue rug on the wood floor, which was under a black coffee table, but that was about it. There weren’t any decorations or even a television. “She probably doesn’t have a lot of company,” Dean said out loud.

Sam seemingly ignored him and went further into the apartment. He moved down the hallway, prompting Dean to follow. His brother, though, ignored the first door and opened the second visible door. He found it odd, but didn’t question it. Instead, he decided to check the first room. It was the bathroom and the familiar smell was stronger in here. Curious, Dean began looking throughout the bathroom. Unlike the living room, this room was decorated. Deep red accents were everywhere in the white room. The shower curtains, rugs, and toilet lid cover were all red. The hanging towels were, too.

Dean opened the cabinet to the right to see all sorts of hair products and body wash. She must have recently showered before taking off and that’s why the smell seemed concentrated here. But seriously… He had smelled the combination before. He just couldn’t remember where. A sigh left his mouth. It was going to bug him all day. Finding nothing of value, he left the bathroom and headed towards where he had seen Sam go.

He found his brother sitting on an unmade bed, hunched over with his eyes focused on a large book in his lap. The nerd was actually grinning about something. Dean took the time to look around the room. Things were scattered all over the floor. Nail polish, shoes, empty carbonated water bottles, hangers, and brightly colored combs—to name a few items on the floor. The room was accented with blue. “Damn, this girl messy,” he commented. His voice snapped Sam out of his concentration on the book. “Find anything interesting, Sammy?” The book snapped close.

“ _Uh_ , no... Nothing.” Sam abruptly stood up. He went over to a bookshelf and placed the book back. He looked more awkward than normal. Dean narrowed his eyes, focusing on the book’s binder. In gold print were the words ‘Photo Album.’ Why in the hell would Sam be looking at this chick’s pictures? He had been acting weird ever since this whole job started. “What about you?”

“Nope, just the bathroom,” Dean replied, still eyeing his brother suspiciously. Sam cleared his throat and did not return his gaze. Deciding to let it go for now, he turned away and focused on other things in the room. Still no sign of a television. There was a desk with a notebook on it. Stepping over a red towel, which was in front of a full body mirror, Dean went over to the desk. He picked up the red notebook and flipped through it. He furrowed his eyebrows. “I can’t make heads or tails of this shit.” Sam came over, snatching the notebook from his hands. “Rude…!”

He was ignored in favor of skimming through the pages. “I can’t understand it either. She knows multiple languages, so there’s no telling what this is.” Sam squinted his eyes at the symbols. “Maybe it’s Korean…” he muttered more to himself than his brother.

“How do you know she’s multilingual?” Dean asked. Sam opened his mouth, but he looked really hesitant. He licked his lips and turned away to set the notebook down on the desk again. He cleared his throat.

“… The books,” he finally answered. “They’re not all in English, so…”

Sam was not being all the way honest. His answer could have been enough if he hadn’t been so jittery about it. His brother knew more about this situation—about this girl—than he was letting on. The vision he had must be getting to him. He was letting it effect the job. Dean knew those freaky visions would eventually lead to a lapse in judgment. Before he could make any sort of comment out loud, he noticed something hanging on the wall when Sam shifted. “Hello…!” He pushed his brother out of the way, leaning in close to the weekly planner. “Now, what do we have here?” He scanned over the words and his eyebrows jumped when he came across her plans for today. “Look at that—five hour ritual.”

“What?” Sam rudely pushed him out of the way. “No… That can’t be.”

“Looks like she’s a demon,” Dean announced once he righted himself. “Whatever this ritual is, it’s doing it right now at the Hugo Young Theatre. Since it’s Sunday, the place is deserted, giving the demon time and isolation to do whatever the hell it intends to do.”

“She’s not an _it_ , Dean!” Sam almost aggressively protested. “There has to be an explanation for this.” He grit his teeth and turned to glare. Dean remained quiet under the intense gaze of his brother. “She’s a little strange, but… That doesn’t make her a demon. She’s a good person.”

“You don’t know a thing about this chick!”

“I…” Sam pursed his lips and looked down, jaw clenched like he had so much to say, but was not going to. He visibly swallowed. “I didn’t just… _watch_ her last night,” he confessed. “We talked for _hours_. I know her.”

“She could have played you, Sammy!”

“For what?”

“I don’t know,” Dean explained, shrugging. “For all we know, this demon could know who you are—who _we_ are!”

“No…” Sam roughly slid his hand down the lower half of his face. “You’re wrong. She’s not a demon. I can’t explain how she survived the fall or—or her planned ritual, but she’s human, Dean. Maybe she’s just fooling around with things she doesn’t understand and because of that she gets attacked by the real evil. If that’s the case, we have to save her.” Dean scoffed and headed over to the open door.

“I guess we’ll find out, won’t we?”

 

0-0

 

The trip to theatre took about twenty five minutes, not including the stop to gather supplies. Getting their weapons and things had been something they had agreed on, though Sam had still been wary about actually using them. On the girl who may or may not be a demon. They had had disagreements before so the frustrating silence had been normal. What hadn’t been normal had been the fidgeting. His younger brother would not stop twitching, and it was grating on Dean’s nerves. He, of course, had noticed the tension Sam had going on ever since he had the series of visions.

With every empty room they had come across, Dean felt the apprehension of his brother rise. It had taken almost an hour to look through perfectly normal classrooms. It wouldn’t be too much longer before- “She’s not here!” Sam groused, visibly showing his agitation. He stormed into the hallway. Dean sighed before following. “I don’t get it. She should be in one of the classrooms. Where else would a ritual take place?”

“So you admit she’s a demon?”

“No!”

“Cool your tits, Sammy,” Dean said, rolling his eyes. As usual, his brother couldn’t take a running joke. “She’s here somewhere. Though it is weird that a demon would write down ‘Ritual 12:35 to 17:35,’ don’t you think?” Sam gave him _The Bitchface,_ causing another sigh. “Well, we looked everywhere else. The only place left is the actual theatre.” He frowned and raised his eyebrows. “In hindsight, a five hour ritual would probably take up a lot of space, so let’s go.” Without waiting for a reply, Dean headed down the hall. There was a map of the building, so he knew exactly where to go.

Arriving at the doors to the auditorium, the two brothers discovered them locked. Barred from the inside. Dean clicked his tongue in annoyance before his eyes began scanning for another way in. Sam was the one to find it. The door for backstage was just a few meters away, and unlocked. As his brother opened the door, Dean decided to pull his gun. Sam might be all ‘she needs to be saved!’ but he wasn’t going in without some form of protection. Demon or not. Sam saw the Colt 1911, glowered, but kept any comment to himself. Great. He didn’t feel like arguing when the potential demon was just around the corner.

It took a few moments, but they maneuvered through the backstage props and such. They peered around the curtain to look on stage. She wasn’t there either. There was just a large blue mat that took up most of the stage floor. Dean almost groaned, feeling frustrated. Then, Sam harshly poked his side and pointed out to the auditorium. Ignoring the slight pain, he directed his eyes to the rows of seats. Dressed in black yoga pants and a blue sports bra, the girl was running across the theatre. Her hairstyle was different than the picture—braided pigtails—but it was definitely who they had been looking for.

But… She looked so normal. Well, not normal. The girl was running across the back of the seats instead of the floor. _That_ was not normal. No wonder she barred the doors. Dean glanced at the two entrances to see wooden beams had been slid in between the steel handles of the doors, preventing anyone from entering. He looked back towards the girl, who was completely oblivious to their presence due to the earphones and the general lack of paying attention to her surroundings.

The girl suddenly halted, balancing perfectly on the edge of an arm rest. She was facing the stage now, so he could see her messing around with a white rectangular device, which had she pulled from in between her boobs. She then hopped off the arm rest and landed in the aisle. She tucked her small device back in her sports bra. Then she tore down the aisle at an alarmingly fast pace. Dean tensed in response, but her eyes weren’t focused on their hiding spot. Still, his trigger finger had gotten itchy. When she got to the stage, she jumped over the ledge and landed in a handstand on the blue mat. She stayed upright for a moment before falling over onto her feet. She spread her arms, and then starting dancing.

Dean blinked once, and then removed his finger from the trigger. That’s all this was? Strange exercise habits? Still, five hours of that was abnormal. Beside him, Sam released a sigh as though he had been holding his breath for too long. Dean took a moment to look at his brother. Despite releasing a sigh, Sam still looked too tense for the situation. He stared the girl down like… Well, he wasn’t going to waste time describing his brother’s awed face. Poor Sammy. He had probably never seen the type of dance, so his first reaction was to be impressed.

She was pretty awesome, though. Dean had seen better, but those were paid professionals. The girl was clearly having fun, not thinking of how she moved. Her dance was hard, fast and strong, but not exactly precise. He narrowed his eyes, watching her. It looked off. Like dancing wasn’t the motivation… He didn’t even know why he cared. Sam suddenly tapped his shoulder several times in rapid succession. Annoyed, Dean turned to his brother. “Dude, I just saw her again!” he exclaimed in a hushed voice. The confusion must have shown because Sam swallowed hard and finally tore his eyes off the girl. “The visions,” he explained. “They came again, but… I saw her with dad.”

“What?!”

“They were standing next to each other, looking ahead—it was dark and a truck was behind them,” Sam went on. He squeezed his eyes shut. “She had the same hairstyle.”

“What’s up with these visions? Why do you keep getting them about her?”

“I don’t… I don’t know,” he admitted. “I think they’re all the same, but my brain is trying catch up with what I saw the first time. So maybe that’s why I keep getting them…” He shrugged helplessly as though that had been the best explanation he could come up with. Dean inhaled deeply through his nose, attempting to suppress more questions and irritation. This whole seeing the future thing was relatively new to both of them. Sam wasn’t to blame for the lack of accurate answers. Dean forced a heavy sigh.

“So what you’re saying is… this chick either knows dad-”

“Or she’s _going_ to know him, yeah,” Sam finished.

Dean took in another breath to steady himself. Then released it with a smile. “Well, that changes everything!” He turned away from his brother and put his gun away. No need to frighten her. “Time to get answers from dear ol’ Trace.” He moved forward, heading to the center of the stage where the girl continued dancing about. Hearing his brother call out to him did not stop his pace towards the girl. Her back was turned to him, so he reached to grab her shoulder.

Then his world reeled.

One second, he had been standing upright, and in the next second, the back of his head had been slammed against the blue mat with fingers wrapped around his throat. For such a little person, she had a lot of strength behind her grip. The girl had him effectively pinned to the mat with her body hovering over him. “Who are you?!” she demanded to know. With a free hand, she snatched one of the earphones out to hear his answer. Her fierce expression and tone of voice was a stark contrast to her the picture on the website. While she had smiled innocently for the camera, she bared her teeth for him. Dean was looking into the eyes a _predator_. Despite his mind supplying that word, he didn’t feel _any_ fear. As if this job wasn’t already complicated.

He should be twisting and struggling to get away from her. With the way she held him down with no strain made it perfectly clear that she was a demon. But… Dean did not feel the need to move. Did not feel the need to attempt retaliation. Why? Was she even a demon? She didn’t act like one. “Dean…!” Sam shouted. His approaching fast-paced footsteps could be heard, but Dean did not look away from the girl on top of him. She, however, snapped her head up towards his brother, hand not wavering from his throat.

“You…” Her voice came out, barely a whisper, and then she looked down at him, eyes wide. Her lips parted. She looked stunned, but there was recognition. She knew him—knew them both. “You’re real.” Her hand left his throat and she sat down on top of him. She relaxed, but let out a shuddering, astonished breath. Like she had choked back a cry. “You’re both _real_.” She mumbled something else, but it didn’t sound English. Sam came into his line of sight, holding his hand out. Her fingers reached for his, and she was pulled off of Dean.

“We’re not going to hurt you,” Sam told her.

“Hurt _her_?!” Dean snapped out of whatever daze he had been in, and then hopped up. “If you hadn’t noticed, she slammed me like I was made of paper!” He glared at her, but she only frowned. Sam did not release her hand. “And what do you mean _real_?! You’ve _seen_ us before?!”

“ _Shyeah_ ,” she replied as she narrowed her eyes. “When I was sixteen.” She pulled away from Sam and backed away a few paces. She didn’t look uncomfortable, just hesitant. Her brown eyes looked elsewhere. “It sounds impossible, but I recognize you—the both of you.”

“We sorta deal with… impossible things,” Sam said. “You can tell us.” She crossed her arms, showing discomfort for the first time.

“I’m not telling you anything until I know who you are,” she stated, cocking her right eyebrow upward. “ _And_ how the hell you got in here in the first place.”

“Okay, okay,” Sam raised his hands as though to placate her. “That’s Dean, my older brother, and I’m… I’m Samuel.”

“ _Samuel_ …?!” Dean repeated, questioningly. Sam hated being called that. He had never introduced himself by his real name. Instead of looking his way, his brother kept intense eyes on Tracee.

“Samuel…” The girl also repeated his name, but it was different. Like she wasn’t _just_ saying his name. It was as though she was _savoring_ it.

“Sammy if ya nasty,” Dean mentioned because he honestly couldn’t help it, causing both of them to turn in his direction. Sam gave his standard Bitchface while she looked as if she were holding back a laugh. “So you know our names. To answer your second question, you left the backstage door unlocked.”

“Damn it,” she muttered. “Knew I forgot something…” Her arms uncrossed and she pursed her lips together. “You came here looking for me? Why?” Dean and Sam exchanged a look. They knew where this would go. If they told her the truth, she would have the same reactions that had gotten over the years. Hysterical laughter, disbelief, and his favorite ‘Get away from me or I’ll call the police!’ Awesome reactions that tended to lead to a person’s death because they had not listened.

“Before we tell you,” Dean began. “I think it’s only fair for you to answer some of our questions.”

“Against my better judgment, that does sound fair,” she replied, shrugging. “… My name is Tracee, but I’m assuming you already knew that.”

“Guilty,” Dean admitted, unapologetic. She frowned again, but did not comment. “Tell us, _Trace_ , do you happen to know a John Winchester?”

“That your missing dad?” Tracee ignored the nickname and asked a question of her own. Sam had said they had spoken for hours. Of course, his brother decided to let her know a few things concerning the road trip. “Sorry, never heard that name before now.” So either she really didn’t know their dad or she knew him by one of his aliases. But if she didn’t know him now, that meant that she hadn’t met him yet. Dean furrowed his brow. That also meant eventually the two of them would cross paths. Here, though? What would make his father come to Ashland, Ohio where nothing ever happened?

“Okay, so about you seeing us before…” Sam spoke up. “You saw us when you were sixteen? Dean and I weren’t anywhere near here at that age, and you said that you grew up here, so what did you mean?” Tracee grimaced and looked away for a moment. “You can tell us,” his brother repeated, taking a step towards her stiff form. The puppy-eyed look worked wonders because her shoulders dropped and the tension left her body.

“When I was sixteen,” she began, and then visibly swallowed. “I dreamt of you. Almost every night for a year.”

“You knew what we looked like when we were teenagers?” Dean questioned. “How?”

“No,” Traced shook her head. “ _I_ was sixteen. I dreamt of you two as you are _now_. Right now.” Her brown eyes looked them both up and down. “Same clothes and everything.” Again, both brothers exchanged a look. She had had dreams of them. Did that make her like Sam? Judging from the look in his brother’s eyes, he had reached the same question. “I know it sounds… cracked,” Tracee continued, wringing her fingers nervously in front of her. Her jaw clenched. “The dreams stopped after a year and eventually I forgot, so when I met Samuel in the bar last night, I thought he looked vaguely familiar. It wasn’t until I saw the two of you together that… it clicked. Here you are in front of me… _real_. I must sound absolutely crazy to you.”

“No, no, you don’t,” Sam replied. “I… I get dreams like that, too.”

“What?”

“Sam,” Dean’s voice came out like a warning.

“She deserves to know why we’re here, Dean.” Sam seemed resolute in his decision. When his brother got like this, no amount of arguing would lead him from that decision. With a huff, Dean gestured for him to continue. His brother smiled lightly before turning his full attention to Tracee. She had reached up to take the other earphone out. After wrapping the cord around her white iPod, she looked fully prepared to listen.

That’s what she did. As Sam told her a basic version of the things they actual did on their road trip, she just stood there without comment. Her expression remained perfectly neutral as his brother explained that supernatural creatures existed. No widening of her eyes. No raised brows. No gasps or dubious looks. She just listened and blinked every once in a while. Finally, Sam got to the part about his visions. He explained that because of a vision, they had saved a family previously. He also told her about the vision involving her, which led them to believe she had been in danger.

“We wanted to save you,” Sam insisted. “I couldn’t see what was chasing you, but you were definitely in danger. I… I think I prevented it last night.” Dean kept his gaze on Tracee. She had yet to speak up about anything, but it appeared as though his brother was done with the explanation, so it was only a matter of waiting for her reaction. He wondered what it would be. Accusations of them being crazy, probably. Anger, too. Tracee shifted her feet a bit. About to run? No questions asked or concerns about their mental health? That would be a new one.

“Nope,” came her simple response. Dean almost thought he heard wrong. She said it again. “Nope. I can’t take this. I’m-” She swallowed and reached for her temple. “I’m going to pass out now.” Then she did. Just abruptly fell to the blue mat and did not move again. Sam looked at her unconscious form, gapping like a fish.

“Well, that went better than expected,” Dean remarked. “First time someone’s fainted on us.” Not finding his comment funny, Sam gave him another Bitchface. His brother walked over to Tracee and lowered himself beside her. “But… guess that rules out demon.” He watched Sam pick her up as gently as he could. Not like that mattered. She might not be a demon, but she was something they hadn’t come across before. He still planned on using salt and holy water to be sure. “I still have questions, though. Like what exactly is she?”

“Yeah,” Sam muttered, holding her close and staring down at her face. “She dreamt of us. Does that mean she’s like me? Or does it mean something else entirely? And she picked you up like you didn’t weigh anything.” His eyes shifted to him. “But I wasn’t scared. I didn’t panic when I saw her slam you down. I don’t know why, but… I knew she wouldn’t hurt you.” Dean frowned, deciding not to tell him that he had gotten that feeling as well. “I’m not sure where her… abilities come from, but she could give us answers.”

“And if she doesn’t know the answers?”

“Then we find out.” Sam held her tighter, but did not look away from him. “Together.” Dean sighed through his nose. Still, he didn’t exactly oppose that. Especially if it led to their dad. They could also possibly find out a weakness just in case they ran into someone like her who wasn’t so ignorant about what they were. One thing was certain, though. Tracee would be a means to an end.

 

0-0


	4. Dream

Tracee felt a light tugging at her hair. It’s what made her wake up. She didn’t open her eyes, though. Where she lay felt familiar, but it wasn’t the mat. She had remembered hitting the mat, and then nothing after… Holy shit. The supernatural existed. That’s why she had passed out. Information overload. She had fainted before when she had attempted to learn three different languages at once. Her father had scolded her for it and told her to pace herself in the future. She hadn’t and had passed out several times while learning. It probably had something to do with not eating during those times. But she hadn’t passed out due to knowledge for nearly three years now. To think it would happen again.

The tugging had yet to cease. Tracee needed to focus on the now. It felt like she was in her own bed, lying face up with her arms at her sides. Her sports bra felt a little damp, which was weird because she hadn’t worked up a sweat before passing out. Had she…? Things got a little muddled once she had felt a hand on her shoulder. Tracee almost sighed. That hand had belonged to one of the two men she had dreamt about so many years ago.

Eight years later and they appeared again in reality. If the supernatural did truly exist, having foretelling dreams didn’t seem so farfetched. Still… What did it mean for her? She wanted to know, but at the same time, she didn’t want to know. It would twist her entire world. Would it really, though? She assumed not a lot of people knew about a paranormal type world, and yet the world kept spinning. Her world could keep spinning, too. There was only one way to find out.

Slowly, Tracee opened her eyes. She was greeted by the sight of Samuel—or was it Sam?—sitting beside her bed. He had pulled her blue cushion chair from the corner of the room. He was completely focused on her hair. He had been unraveling her braid, which explained the slight tugging. It felt… nice. Normally, it would be creepy as fuck. If she had seen it in a movie, she would be yelling at the screen for a sudden throat punch. But this was different. It didn’t make her feel uncomfortable. Sam didn’t make her feel uncomfortable at all. How was that possible? She had only just learned his name. No amount of questioning made her feel ill at ease in his presence, though. So without comment, she let him finish untying the braid before clearing her throat.

His eyes snapped to hers. At least he had the decency to look guilty. “Hey,” he greeted as his fingers left her hair. Tracee sat up and looked around the room. The other one was nowhere in sight. She returned her gaze to Sam and ran her hand through her hair. He had already worked out her other braid, too. How long had she been out? Tracee glanced at the window, noting the dark outside. “ _Um_ … We brought you home,” Sam stated. “You must have a lot of questions.”

“Where’s Dean?” she asked. He blinked, seemingly surprised that that had been the first question out of her mouth. Hell, she was pretty surprised, too, but it had been at the forefront of her mind. Sam explained that his brother hadn’t eaten, so he was busy raiding her kitchen. Under normal circumstances, she would be highly annoyed that a stranger was moving freely through her personal space, but she couldn’t muster it this time. She mentally sighed, for what, she wasn’t sure. “How did you get into my apartment?” Sam cleared his throat before answering.

“With your keys,” he lied.

“You mean the _key_ that’s _still_ in my bra?” Tracee narrowed her eyes and crossed her arms.

“… We broke in,” he admitted.

“Did you pour water on me?”

“It was Dean’s idea. It was holy water.”

“A precaution—smart.”

“But you’re not a demon.”

“Then what am I?”

“… We don’t know.”

Tracee sighed and shut her eyes. “Right then,” she muttered as she opened her eyes and moved to scoot off of the bed. She halted and sat on the edge. She could feel Sam’s eyes on her, but didn’t turn to face him. “Tell me about this vision of yours. You said you prevented it from happening, but what exactly did you see that made you think I was in danger?” He obliged and explained that she had been running from something. He also told her that she had been wearing the exact same shirt last night, which had been the reason he had thought he had prevented it from happening. Tracee narrowed her eyes. Had that been the reason he had torn her shirt down the middle last night?

Well, joke’s on him. She had two more shirts that were identical. It had been a bargain she hadn’t wanted to pass up. Plus, the shirts were cute. Telling him that would probably rain on his parade, so for now, she wouldn’t say anything. “So…” Sam began. She heard him slide the chair back. The sound of his footsteps entered her ears. He moved towards her, and then set down on the edge of the bed beside her. “You believe me? About everything?”

Tracee licked her dry lips. She sighed a bit before turning to him. Her knee brushed against his and she didn’t mind. “I trust you,” she confessed. For some strange, unfathomable reason, she did. It was unexplainable and shouldn’t be possible. But there it was. Still, knowledge was power and power was knowledge, but knowledge needed evidence for the foundation of power. Something her father had told her. Many times. Sam seemed to pick up the emphasis. His head dropped for a moment before his eyes met hers again.

“But you don’t _believe_ me,” he guessed.

“… I like knowledge, Samuel, but I need proof. So no, I can’t just readily believe when you say there’s a reason to be afraid of the dark,” Tracee stated. He nodded his head in understanding. “But I _am_ willing to believe that you have visions.” Sam, of course, furrowed his brow. “For me, the proof was actually seeing you and your brother. Billions of people in the world, I can’t be the only one with premonition-like capabilities.”

“That’s strange reasoning,” Sam replied.

“But not exactly a bad thing, though, right?” she replied with a shrug. He smiled at her, and she couldn’t help the smile that spread on her face in return. His shoulder lightly bumped hers as he inched closer.

“No, I can’t say it is.” His tongue darted out, wetting his lips. Tracee swallowed, eyes transfixed on his mouth now. Her mind instantly conjured up images of where that mouth had gone. Her insides squirmed and tightened at the thought of his touch—both gentle and rough. With his lips, his hands, and bloody hell, that tongue. She wanted to pull him on top of her and let his hands and mouth roam free. Not even with Michael had she felt a yearning so strong. Forcing the lustful thoughts from her head, Tracee dropped her gaze and turned her head away. It had been fun, but it wouldn’t happen again. The man probably couldn’t handle his alcohol—that’s all. “Hey, you okay?”

Tracee opened her mouth to reply, but was interrupted. “Sammy, you have _got_ to try this pasta!” Dean came into the room, holding a blue bowl in one hand and a fork full of penne in the other. He was holding the fork up to his mouth when his eyes found hers. “Oh, hey, Trace! Welcome back. Hope you don’t mind-” He lifted the bowl up a bit before shoving the fork in his mouth. “-I took a few liberties.”

“Knock yourself out,” she replied, drily. Dean grinned at her, chewing. There was a bit of irritation that bubbled up, but to be honest, she felt flattered. Considering the dish was the only thing she knew how to make that came close to being an actual dinner, it was nice to hear someone else liked it. Even if the ingredients came from prepackaged materials. Chef Ramsay would surely scream insults at her for it. “Now that you’re both here,” she began, subtly shifting away from Sam so their bodies weren’t touching anymore. “Can I assume you have questions?”

“Yeah, like why do you call what you were doing a ritual?” Dean asked. Tracee raised a brow. This brother would be asking the important questions. She could just tell. Holding back a grin, she shrugged.

“Because a ritual is a sequence of actions, gestures, and words. In a sequester place. Doesn’t mean it has to be religious. Or satanic… which is what I assume you thought I would be doing?” Dean didn’t look the least bit rueful. Tracee could find herself getting along with him. “My father tells me to do it every weekend, so I call it a ritual. It’s fun, so I do it. Swordplay, running, dancing, followed by floor gymnastics. An hour each, and then mediation for the rest of the allotted time. A ritual. It used to be shorter—all five activities in two hours, but my father changed the time two years ago.”

“That must take a lot of stamina,” Sam remarked. Tracee resisted the urge to smile cheekily at him and reply with ‘You’d know, wouldn’t you?’ Instead, she only shrugged. Something in her expression still must have given her away because he suddenly became red-faced and looked away from her. He cleared his throat before speaking again. “You said swordplay. You mean like fencing?”

“Sure,” she answered, though it was much more than fencing. “It was my father’s idea. Started learning when I was twelve. Another one of his special birthday presents.” Tracee may gripe about her father’s far from normal presents, but the lot of them were actually fun. Who needed Barbie dolls at the tender age of eleven? Not her, according to her father. Now a bokken—that was a gift.

“So about these dreams of yours,” Dean went on. The look exchanged with his brother had not escaped Tracee’s observation. But she wasn’t going to comment on it for now. “They just stopped after a year?”

“ _Shyeah_ ,” she replied. “Haven’t thought about the dream until now.”

“ _The_ dream?” Dean repeated. “I thought you said you dreamt about us for a year.” He reached for her blue desk chair, sat down, and then rolled closer. Tracee eyed the contents of the bowl and guessed that he had gotten half of the leftovers. She would have to go shopping sooner than anticipated.

“I did. It was just the same dream over and over again,” Tracee explained. “Here, let me start from the beginning.” She shut her eyes and took a deep breath. She had never told anyone about the dream before. Not even her father. This would be the first time she would say it out loud. Fortunately, she could remember the dream with perfect clarity now. Seeing these two brothers had jumpstarted the memory and brought the dream to the head of her awareness. “It starts with me waking up in an empty room…”

 

0-0

 

Tracee slowly opened her eyes. She breathed in through her mouth and sighed heavily through her nose. She blinked once, gaze focused on the interior arch. It revealed a hallway with stairs. She blinked again, and then moved to stand from the hardwood floor. Silently, she observed the room. Completely empty. She spun around. There was no furnishing. No windows either. There was a light above her, though it flickered erratically.

She stopped spinning and squeezed her eyes shut. Her arms came around herself to stop the cold. “I’m afraid…” Tracee whispered to herself. In this cold, empty room, she felt insecure and unsafe. There was a lingering weight to her shoulders that would not go away. “I’m alone…”

“You don’t have to be.” A voice caught her attention. She opened her eyes to see a little boy. He stood under the archway, arms at his side. His eyes were green and his hair was a dark blond color. He wore plaid pajamas. There was nothing covering his feet. Tracee swallowed as she dropped her arms. Her shoulders relaxed. She questioned the boy’s identity and their location, but he just shrugged and gave her a playful smile. “Angels are watching over us,” he said instead. The little boy turned away from her. Something inside jerked at the sight of his back. However, the boy turned his head, looking at her from the corner of his eye. “Don’t let go,” he whispered.

The boy turned completely, and then left his spot under the archway and began to climb the stairs. It took a moment, or two, but Tracee took a step forward. Then another. With each step she took, the weight seemed to fade from her shoulders. She went through the archway, not pausing in her stride to follow the boy up the staircase. He did not wait for her to reach the top. He went into a room adjacent to the flight of stairs, causing Tracee’s movements to become more hurried.

She found the boy leaning against the wall near the entrance, arms crossed, and eyes looking up at her. Her hand reached for his shoulder, but he merely shook his head and looked elsewhere. Tracee curled her fingers and directed her line of sight to the room. Like the room downstairs, it was void. Still no windows. The light above did not flicker, though. However, a simple oval-shaped mirror hung on the far wall. The frame was black and made of wood.

Tracee hesitantly walked over to the mirror. She expected to see herself, but instead she saw another girl. She appeared to be her age, or somewhere close to it. A bleach blonde teenager with bright green—or was that a mix of green and blue?—eyes stared back at her. Her hair was long and curled, not a strand out of place. Young and pretty, but her eyes were fierce beyond her years. Tracee blinked and her reflection changed.

She saw different faces, varying shades of skin color, changing quicker than a blink. Hundreds of faces, different ethnicities. All female, ranging from teenagers to adult women, stared at her with the same fierce eyes as the blonde. Tracee blinked again. At once, the faces stopped changing. She was left with the image of an adult. She had medium length dark brown hair, ends reaching just above her chest. Her eyes were brown—and fierce like the others—and her eyelids were lined in dark blue eyeliner. She had chestnut brown skin, smooth with foundation and youth, and nude lipstick with a pinkish tint. She was beautiful and frightening.

Then her eyes softened, and so did her expression. Tracee relaxed, and then smiled. “Sister,” she greeted in a light tone. The image smiled back, revealing the small gap between her two front teeth. “Sister,” her image replied with a nod, voice a deep alluring purr. She placed her hand on the mirror and the glass rippled like water at the contact. Her hand came through, reaching to caress Tracee’s cheek before sliding further into her single braided hair. “Accept your gift.”

Tracee nodded once. Her image glowed and became transparent. The white glow shot forward and knocked her back. She slammed hard onto the floor, breathing in deeply. The room shook and a laugh tumbled out of her mouth. She rolled on to her stomach, and then pushed herself up, grin still on her face. The room stopped shaking as her eyes focused on the door. The boy watched her, but now he had a bundle in his arms. “Don’t let go,” he told her, louder than before. He then left the room, holding the bundle securely against his chest.

The cries of a baby echoed through the room. Tracee walked forward, following the noise down the hall, passing several rooms on the way. Finally, she came to a halt outside the room at the end of the hall. The cries had turned to mere coos. “I’m not alone,” she said, moving into the room. The boy stood towards the far side of the room, lightly rocking the bundle in his arms. The bundle was an infant. Green eyes shifted away from the face of the baby to her. A shiver raked her body and she moved forward, hand outstretched towards the two.

Suddenly a fire erupted from the floor, separating her from the boy and the baby. It burned her hand and concealed the other side of the room. Her fingers curled into a fist as she glared at the flames. “I’m not alone,” she repeated. “Angels are watching over us.” The fire burned brighter and hotter. Tracee squeezed her eyes shut. The heat abruptly ceased and the flames that had begun to lick her skin faded. She opened her eyes. Two men stood before her now. One, with dark blond hair and green eyes, grinned at her and clapped his hands three times. The other, taller one with brown hair and hazel—a combination of brown and green—eyes merely stared at her. They both wore t-shirts with plaid over-shirts and jeans. Dark boots covered their feet. “Found you,” she said, grinning.

“Found you,” the taller of the two repeated. He held out his left hand. “ _Cherry_.” Another shiver threatened to overwhelm her.

“Don’t let go,” the shorter one insisted. He held out his right hand. Tracee stared at their extended hands for a moment before grabbing them, intertwining her fingers with theirs. She held on tightly. They pulled her forward, walking backwards to the window with the black curtains. With their free hands, they drew back the curtains and beams of light shined through the window.

 

0-0

 

“… And then I wake up,” Tracee finished. She squeezed her knees, not meeting either one of the brothers’ gaze. She didn’t know what type of reaction to expect. That dream had been something she had kept to herself until ultimately forgetting about it. It was weird. It didn’t make sense. And as a teenager, she loved it. She would go to bed early just to have it sometimes. It was hers and she hadn’t wanted to share with anyone. Not until now. With the very men who had been conjured in her mind. She swallowed hard, realizing that neither had decided to speak. “Too much information…? I won’t laugh if you faint like I did.”

That managed to break the ice. Dean immediately began questioning certain aspects of the dream, especially the little boy. “Isn’t it obvious?” Sam muttered. He stood up. “That little boy was you, and I was the baby. She dreamt about us _that_ night.” Tracee raised a brow, watching Dean furiously rub at his temple. He had long since finished the bowl of pasta.

“I’m sorry—that night?” she questioned. “What night?”

“I…” Sam started.

“How do we know you’re not just making all this up?” Dean interrupted. His gaze had been more intense than it had been on stage. Something in her dream had touched a nerve, Tracee realized. With both of them. She was finding it all to believe that it anything to do with the adult versions.

“ _Shyeah_ right! I have better things to do than to confuse two strangers!” she shot back. “Now what night are you talking about?” Again, the brothers exchanged a look. “Fine—don’t tell me. Don’t believe me. I shouldn’t have told you anyway. But I think it’s time for both of you to leave.” What had she been thinking? These were two grown men that had broken into her apartment. Who knows what they had been up to while she had been unconscious? Swallowing bile, Tracee squeezed her knees harder. What she was doing, how she was acting—it wasn’t right or normal. “Get out…!”

“Wait, please!” Sam protested. He dropped down in front of her, hastily grabbing at her hands. The tension almost immediately left her body. She stared down at his eyes and the grimace left her face. “We’re here to help you. If you send us away, we won’t be able to.” His grip on her hands tightened. “That dream… That dream was yours, and we had no right to know about it even if we were in it. You told us anyway.” He turned to his brother. “It’s only fair that we tell you something that could help you understand it.”

Dean scowled, but then sighed in defeat. “From the sounds of your dream,” he began. “You saw us right after… our mom died. I carried Sam out of our burning house when I was four. He was only six months old.” Tracee remained silent. “What? No heartfelt apology for bringing up our mom?”

“… No,” she replied.

“I see _you’re_ a keeper, bitch,” he said sarcastically.

“Bite the _flattest_ part of my ass.”

“Only if I can find it!”

“You wish you had the chance!”

Instead of lashing out again, Dean appeared as though he was holding back a laugh. He smirked at her, eyes twinkling with mischief. Tracee helplessly grinned back and rolled her eyes. “Hey, can get back on track here?” Sam asked, standing and removing his hands from hers. He sat beside her, close enough to press his shoulder against her again. “Your dream was like a vision, but it wasn’t like mine.” He shook his head a bit. “It was vague and more… metaphor-like. None of that could _actually_ happen.”

“I realize this,” Tracee agreed with a nod. “But I think it did allude to events both past and future. Like me actually meeting you two. And that mirror… must mean something, too.”

“I think it means there are more of you out there,” Dean said. “The mirror part anyway. The other parts don’t make a lick of sense. And what the hell does ‘Cherry’ signify?” Tracee shrugged, unknowing. But to be honest, after having the dream a few times, she had begun to eat cherries—and cherry-flavored things—like they were going extinct. To this day, she loved the taste of cherries. To her right, Sam coughed and cleared his throat, scooting a little bit away from her. Strange guy. “The question is: What are you?”

“Just what every girl wants to hear,” Tracee commented, sardonically. Dean shrugged.

“Hey, _uh_ …” Sam seemed hesitant to speak, but his voice still caught her attention. He looked a bit nervous. “Could Dean and I talk privately for a moment?” Tracee raised both eyebrows. “I know that’s a lot to ask, but…”

“Talk in the living room. I would like to change clothes,” she relented. Those eyes of his could work magic. It’s no wonder he had planned for law. Bet he could make the most hardened criminals break down and cry about their tragic pasts that led them to the life in the first place. Sam smiled in thanks, and then stood up. Without a word to his brother, he pulled on the desk chair and rolled Dean out of the room. A mocking ‘ _wheee_ ’ left his mouth as he disappeared in the hallway.

Chuckling again, Tracee stood up. She walked over to the door and shut it. It was weird how those two could put her at ease. So weird. Her dream was probably responsible for that. She hadn’t said it out loud, but their presence in the dream had a calming effect on her. Even—apparently—the younger version of Dean. “ _Hm_ … It is an odd turn of events,” she muttered. However, she didn’t know what it meant yet. Possibly, after tonight, she wouldn’t see them again. Possibly, after tonight, the world she knew would change. She went over to her closet in search of something to put on, catching her reflection in the mirror. Straightening her hair would be a good idea, too.

 

0-0

 

Sam paced the length of the living room. He could feel his brother’s eyes on him as he moved, but he needed to get his thoughts together before speaking. Firstly, he was _not_ going to mention that he knew about ‘Cherry.’ No way was he going to share that with Dean. However, for the rest of the dream, he had formed interpretations about it. He still didn’t know what Tracee was—as far as he was concerned, she was still human—but he could take a guess to when things changed. His interpretation was based on things Tracee had shared with him already prior to the dream. Also, he was guessing at this. Since they were guesses, he had to make it sound, at least, plausible that he was on the right track.

Finally, his pacing came to a halt. He turned to his brother and sighed heavily. Dean looked at him expectedly. “I think I know what the dream means… and it sorta ties in with my visions,” Sam told him. His brother leaned back in the chair and crossed his arms, physically showing him how tough this persuasion piece was going to be. Sam tried not grimace. Dean could be worse than any of his professors. “Everything in her dream means something. Unlike my visions that shows what the future is, her dream was more showing something that she has to figure out what it means. Doesn’t necessarily mean the future.”

“Yeah, I got that—metaphor orgy,” Dean retorted. Sam frowned at his brother’s crude simplicity, but couldn’t deny he was right. “Keep going, Sammy.” He cleared his throat.

“Okay, firstly, she wakes up in an empty house with no windows. It’s cold and she’s alone. She actually says she’s afraid, but doesn’t say of what,” Sam recapped. “What that means is she’s ignorant of the outside world. She doesn’t know what’s going on and because of that, she’s afraid. Tracee is the type of person who loves knowledge, no matter what it could be, so knowing things are happening and not knowing _what_ things terrifies her.”

“Why’s it cold?” Dean asked. “She said it was cold.”

“I… actually haven’t figured out that part,” Sam admitted. His brother did not look impressed. He could imagine points being deducted already. “But then you come in… as a four year old and you lead her to the mirror. I think you appeared as a child because children are innocent and it was easy for her to let her guard down and trust you. I think you are going to lead her to what she is.”

“I don’t _know_ what she is.”

“That’s why I said _lead_!” Sam retorted. “You weren’t involved in what was happening in the mirror. You just stood there next to the door.” Dean rolled his eyes. Sam decided to ignore it. “The main point is that she _trusts_ you to do it. Forgetting her fear of not knowing what’s happening outside the house, she follows you… She learns what she is and _becomes_ what she is and is happy about it.” He paused for a moment, eyes darting towards the hallway. The door to Tracee’s room was still firmly shut. Swallowing, he turned his gaze back to his brother. “She doesn’t know still, but I think two years ago is when she actually _became_.”

“How’d you figure?”

“Two years ago, everything happened. The fall, the cover up, the sudden increase of time for the ritual—it all happened two years ago,” Sam explained. “She suddenly changed probably because the discovery of some of her abilities. She didn’t want anyone to know so she stopped talking to people. And… I looked through her photo album and there’s a picture from two years ago that looks exactly how she described her older self in the dream.” Dean furrowed his brow.

“Wait, wait!” He dropped his voice low and quickly glanced behind him towards the hallway. “Are you saying her dad knows what she is?” His brother caught on quicker than he thought he would. “He increased the time to five hours. That means he knew about her abilities. That means he knew she was going to get them!”

“Yeah, since he set up the ritual beforehand,” Sam continued. “He’s probably a hunter. He trained her without her knowing.”

“What?! You can’t just train someone to fight ghosts and demons and not _tell_ them they’re going to fight ghosts and demons!”

“He made her learn how to use a sword, Dean. And she knows how to use a crossbow and possibly a longbow, too. He made her learn things at an early age probably for preparation of what she became two years ago.”

“So she’s a hunter who doesn’t hunt, doesn’t know about hunting, but probably knows how to kill just about everything?”

“Probably not the killing part, but she might be fully equipped to do it,” Sam shrugged. “But that’s beside the point. Her dad wasn’t in the dream, so I don’t think she learns what she is because of him.” Dean sighed like he couldn’t handle any more information, but gestured for him to go on. Sam bit his lip. He knew the next part would be met by heavy resistance. “Getting back to the dream, she follows you—now holding me—and doesn’t even question or look into the other rooms as she walks by. I think seeing me in your arms brings about protective instincts like she has to reach us no matter what’s going on in other places.” His brother narrowed his eyes, but didn’t comment. “So when she finally finds us in the last room, the first thing she does is reach for us. She didn’t look around that room. She didn’t mention any detail about the room—only that we were there.”

“Okay, so the fire? It blocks her, hurts her. What’s that mean?”

“I think… I think it means that Tracee didn’t know the fire would conceal us…” Sam swallowed hard. “Protect us…”

“The fire…?” Dean repeated. In response, Sam nodded his head. “You’re saying the fire was _protecting_ us? From Trace? She’s bad then? You think she’s bad news?”

“No! I don’t think the fire was meant to be an obstacle for her based on how just a few words caused it to leave,” Sam said. “But it was still there and because of that, the next time Tracee saw us, we were adults.” He waited for a moment to see if his brother was getting what the implication was. Dean still looked confused. He would have to spell it out then. “I think the fire was mom.”

“Are you kidding me, Sam?!” he erupted, though his voice was still hushed. Again, he looked back at the hallway. The door was still shut. Dean looked back at him, glaring hard. “She couldn’t possibly-!”

“Think about it!” Sam cut in. “From the very moment you appeared, you said almost _word for word_ what mom used to tell you. She says it to the fire and it goes away, showing who we are _now_. After mom’s spirit—which was fire, in case you forgot—left the house and destroyed the poltergeist, the very next vision I had was about Tracee. It’s connected, Dean! Somehow, mom’s spirit existing blocked us from meeting Tracee or… or maybe her death itself prevented us from meeting her earlier on. I don’t know, but it’s connected. Which is why I think… we’re supposed to help her.”

“What?” Dean’s expression went back to being confused.

“In her dream, when she saw us as adults, she didn’t reach out for us. We reached for her instead. She grabbed our hands and we pulled back the curtains. I think that means we show her this life we have. I think it means… she has to be a part of this life.” _Our lives_ , he wanted to say, but didn’t.

“You want her to become a hunter? You want to push this life on her?”

“I don’t _want_ to,” Sam objected. “But everything is pointing to her already being a part of this life. She’s fast, strong, and can heal injuries that would kill anyone else. Who else would better equipped at fighting paranormal enemies?”

“I don’t believe this,” Dean muttered, rubbing his forehead.

“I think she’s our responsibility.” His brother just groaned loudly. “Or, at the very least, we can take her to Missouri.” Dean focused on him again, giving an incredulous look. “In her dream, we pulled back the curtains, and it reminded me of when _we_ went. She said almost the same thing, and she may know a lot more than we do. She’s the one who told dad about all this—about this life.”

“Okay… okay… Let’s pretend for a moment that all that crap makes sense,” Dean began. “And I agree with you… Why not say all this to Trace?”

“It’s a lot to take in. She’s already _fainted_ after hearing about the supernatural,” Sam explained. “I don’t think throwing in _fate_ would get a better reaction. Especially if we tell her that her dad knew all along and was secretly training her this whole time.” Dean let out another obnoxious sigh. “And since you’re the one leading her in the dream and telling her not to let go, I think she’d go with us if you do the talking.”

“Yeah, _that’s_ going to work. Piece of cake.”

“There’s going to be cake?”

Dean nearly jumped out of his seat before swiveling around. Sam shifted his eyes to the hallway to see Tracee standing there in a large grey t-shirt with the school’s name printed in purple across the chest with the mascot underneath and tight-fitted purple shorts. The neckline had been cut and so the shirt hung off her left shoulder. Sam looked at her hair to see that it had been straightened and pulled back into a ponytail. He almost let a frown slip. It had taken him almost an hour to unbraid her hair so that he can run his fingers all the way down to the roots of her springy curls. He had barely been able to keep his hands away from the half halo of kinks as he unraveled her second braid. The softness and the _smell_ —it was better than her shampoo—made it difficult not to indulge as soon as he could. But he had been patient. He had wanted to wait for the entire halo, but she had awoken as soon as he had finished. And now, she had straightened it. She probably wouldn’t allow him the same intimacy she had this morning in her shower, anyway...

“No! No cake,” Dean stood up from the desk chair. “Just going over what… our next move now that everything has been… taken care of.”

Tracee crossed her arms, a slight frown had worked its way onto her face as his brother spoke. “Funny. I was thinking the opposite,” she said. “You can’t just tell someone that there are evil supernatural creatures and not give them evidence to support your claims! That’s how people come to think you’re _crazy_!”

“You don’t say…” Dean mumbled.

“Look—I trust you both. Weird, but I do,” Tracee continued. “But trusting and _believing_ is two different things in my book. All I’m saying is that if you had proof, I would be more inclined to believing that you two go around killing evil things and saving innocent people… and that I should be more worried about how much salt I buy.”

“You _want_ proof?” Dean asked.

“I don’t want to think I just let two cracked people in my apartment.”

“Fine, but all we have is our dad’s journal,” Dean explained. “The source, though, happens to be in our hometown.” His brother turned to him for a split second to wink at him. Sam tried hard not to roll his eyes. “You want proof, you’re going to have to come with us to Kansas.”

“Kansas?” Tracee repeated, sounding dubious. She had yet to relax. “ _Toto_ Kansas?”

“The very same,” Dean answered, grinning. “It’s about half a day away, but that’s where your proof is. Maybe, just maybe, you could find out what you are there, too.” Mocking laughter left her mouth. “You just said you trusted us.”

“That doesn’t change the fact that you are both _weird_ , and I-”

“Can _easily_ overpower us at the slightest wrongdoing,” Dean cut in. Tracee expression turned thoughtful. Then her arms dropped.

“That’s actually a good point…”

“So you’ll come with us?"

“… I need time to decide.”

Dean opened his mouth, looking about ready to deny her that, but Sam did not let him. “We understand,” he spoke louder, drawing in their attention. His brother shot him a dirty look. “This is a pretty big step into the unknown, so it’s understandable that you want to think about it.” Tracee smiled at him, so easily showing her relaxed state. Sam tried his best not to grin stupidly at her.

“I can give you my number and our motel room,” he continued, reaching in his jacket pocket. He had left a pen there. After finding it, he walked over to Tracee. She held out her hand, almost instinctively. He began writing the name of the motel on her palm in blue ink. He concentrated on writing, but he could feel her gaze on him. “Call us tomorrow, any time, and let us know.”

Sam finished, but held her a hand a bit longer than necessary. “Okay…” Tracee replied with a nod as she slipped her hand away from his. She glanced at her palm. “Okay, so… tomorrow then.”

“Tomorrow it is!” Dean said, though he sounded less than pleased. “Come on, Sammy, let’s give the lady time to think.” His brother roughly guided him towards the door. “Goodnight, Trace!” He opened the door and pushed Sam through. Tracee’s response had barely been heard with the slam of the door.

“Dude, what is your problem?!”

“What’s _your_ problem?!” Dean demanded to know, pushing Sam down the hall and down the stairs. He almost tripped and fell. “You’ll all gung ho about taking her to Kansas, and then want to give her a chance to back out? We don’t have time to sit on our asses, waiting for this chick to make up her mind!”

“It’s not that much time,” Sam countered, beginning to walk away from the apartment complex. Dean followed after him, grumbling. “Besides, I don’t want her to feel pressured about traveling with us.”

“She’s gonna change her mind, and then I have to listen to you mope around for weeks.”

“Shut up.” Sam pushed his brother. Dean pushed him back harder. “She won’t turn down the chance to get her proof. Like I said, she loves knowledge no matter the source.” He stood on the passenger side of the Impala as Dean opened the door to the driver’s side. “She’s coming with us.”

“Whatever you say, Sam,” he responded, and then got in the car. Sighing, Sam did the same. “Hey…” Dean kept his eyes on the steering wheel. “You really think all this—our lives—are connected? That dream-”

“Yeah. I do,” Sam interrupted. “It can’t be a coincidence having both my vision and her dream pointing to each other. We help her. She helps us.”

“Help us what, though? Find dad?”

“I guess we’ll find out, won’t we?” Sam mocked.

“Bitch."

“Jerk.”

Snorting, Dean put the key in the ignition and started the car.

 

0-0


	5. Decision

Sam was pacing, and it was beginning to annoy Dean. It was bad enough his brother had tossed and turned all night, but now he wasn’t confined to his own bed. Green eyes impassively watched as Sam walked back and forth, wondering where all that confidence had gone. It was understandable, of course. It was almost ten in the morning, and neither had received word from Tracee, the mini tank, who apparently had a connection with their dad. Honestly, he had hoped she would choose to ride with them to see Missouri. He was more than a little curious about her now. After that dream, and Sam’s interpretation of it, it was hard not to be. Realistically, though, there was a slim chance she would go with them. He knew from experience. That was the reason telling normal people about what they did would never be a good idea.

Then again, Tracee seemed far from normal. She was superhuman— _if_ she was even human, that is. Her combination of abilities was something he hadn’t heard before. Nothing in his dad’s journal mentioned anything pertaining to tiny girls with super strength, speed, and ‘I can see the future on crack.’ And that was really all they knew about her abilities. She could have more that they had not witnessed. There was another thing. Her father. He had known what would happen, so did that make him like her? Was he dangerous?

Of all the supernatural creatures Dean had come across, all had been evil or dangerous or both. Tracee was different. If it hadn’t been for the supernatural abilities, she would be normal. Her father was another story entirely. They didn’t know her father. Who knows what he was up to or what he had planned for his daughter? Not them. Because Sam had been adamant of _not_ finding out. His reasoning had to do with not wanting to hide secrets from Tracee. If they found out, they would find out together.

Dean mentally sighed and shook his head. Something was going on with his brother. He had been antsy and argumentative—more than usual—ever since he had the vision(s) of Tracee. Something about this job—her—made him on edge. Dean had a sneaking suspicion that Sam wasn’t exactly telling him everything either. He held back about his initial interaction with her. He held back about what he had been doing with her. Dean was pretty sure he was holding something back about the dream, too.

And man…! That dream, and Sam’s understanding of it, still had him reeling. His four-year-old self had appeared in it and told her what his mom used to say to him. His mom… Dean didn’t know what to think about the fire that supposedly protected them. It was all confusing, and Tracee had had the dream for a year. He wondered if she had her own interpretation. Thinking about it just left him more curious and more confused. But time was passing by, and with no word from her, it was becoming more and more obvious that a decision had been made. One that had not been preferred. Expected, but not preferred.

Sam suddenly let out a huff, drawing Dean’s attention again. He had stood in the middle of the room, hands covering his face. It appeared that he had come to the same conclusion. His hands slid from his face and he sighed. “I think it’s time to pack it up, Sammy,” Dean told him. His brother only went back to pacing. “She’s obviously not coming. I mean, come on! _I_ wouldn’t even drop everything to join two suspicious white dudes on a road trip.”

“We’re not _suspicious_ , Dean!” Sam retorted, crossing his arms. He had missed the eye roll entirely. “Besides, she said she trusts us.” He shook his head. “Something might be wrong. She-”

“Sam!” His shout effectively interrupted his brother’s words. Hazel eyes looked his way, brow furrowed. “I think we should face the music, man! She won’t call. She won’t come with us. If we had left last night, maybe, but now… It’s done.”

“No,” Sam shook his head. “You don’t get it, Dean. She _has_ to be with us. My vision-”

“Was with dad! She meets with _dad_! Not us! Hell, your vision was so different from the other one, it could have been faulty! And none of that will come true anyway.” His brother’s shoulders slumped. A look of restrained resignation appeared. “If she doesn’t want to come with us, we shouldn’t force it. Let’s just pack it up and hit the road. It’s almost time to check out, anyway. Let’s just go.” Sam opened his mouth, looking all kinds of torn up—seriously, what the hell?—but a knock on the door stopped him from speaking.

Both brothers looked towards the door, frozen until the noise came again. Sam moved first, heading for the door. Dean hurried off the bed and reached his brother just as the door was pulled open. Looking slightly embarrassed, Tracee stood on the other side wearing an overly large black sweatshirt, dark blue jeans, and blue Converse sneakers. Her other hand was shoved into the front pocket of her sweatshirt. The hood was down, showing the bright red headband that held her hair out of her face. “Hey,” she greeted. Her brown eyes shifted from Sam to Dean. “Sorry for showing up like this.”

“No, you’re fine,” Sam replied, sounding relieved.

“I would have called first, but I washed away the ink in the shower this morning,” Tracee explained. “Luckily, I remembered the name of the motel.”

“Hey, Trace!” Dean stood beside his brother, slightly nudging him out of the way. “You had us worried there for a minute.”

“Oh…? Were you about to leave?” she questioned with a slight frown. “I was going to invite you to breakfast.”

“Breakfast— _hell_ yeah!” Dean exclaimed. He turned around and headed back in order to grab his jacket.

Sam looked his brother’s way in disbelief. Not a moment ago, he had been solemn and wanted to leave as quickly as possible. Now, he was thrilled at the thought of eating. Or… Sam slowly shifted his eyes back to Tracee. Her eyes were focused on Dean rummaging around behind him. She appeared to be holding back a grin. Or maybe it was just her. Sam had certainly felt different at the sight of her. Relief had flooded through him. For just a moment, he had almost gave in to what Dean had been telling him. But here she was, right in front of him.

“Don’t mind him—he’s a food junkie,” Sam said, catching her attention. Her gaze turned to him. Her neck stretched so that she could meet his eyes.

“So I’ve noticed,” she replied. She smiled openly, and Sam couldn’t help but to smile back. “He ended up eating _all_ of my pasta last night. Not just that bowl.” Tracee shifted a bit and glanced elsewhere for a moment. “So… I guess I’ll wait outside for you.”

“What? No, I’ll come with you,” he responded. As he already had his jacket on, he didn’t need anything. On second thought, he did have a bag full of his things inside. “Just let me grab my bag to put in the car, and we’ll let Dean take care of the checkout.” Tracee slipped her other hand in her front pocket, and then nodded her head. Giving her another smile, Sam turned and headed back. Dean was in the process of shrugging on his jacket. “I’ll take our stuff to the car. You can check out.”

“Fine,” Dean replied with a slight groan to his voice. Sam ignored it in favoring of grabbing his bag. He made sure he packed away his laptop before standing upright. His brother was looking through his pockets in search of the room key.

“We’ll wait by the car for you,” he continued, reaching for Dean’s bag as well. Not waiting to hear a reply, Sam headed back to the open door. Tracee had leaned against the wall during her wait. When she noticed him, she stood upright and faced him. “Ready…?” She nodded her head in response. He moved forward and she fell into step with him. Sam tried hard to reduce his normally long stride so that she could keep up with him. He had had to do it the night he met her, too. Thinking about that night made him think about other things. Her kiss, her hands all over him, and her breathy moans. All three times. Sam swallowed and kept his gaze straight ahead, not wanting the risk of her seeing right through to his thoughts.

“Hey, can I ask you something?” Tracee spoke once they reached the parking lot.

“Yeah, sure,” he said, after clearing his throat and focusing. It had been tough to do with memories of their tangled limbs. “Go ahead.” He heard her breathe in deeply before letting it out with a shudder. Sam licked his lips subconsciously. “You can ask me anything.”

“When did you start having visions?” she questioned.

“Oh, _um_ … recently actually,” he answered. “I think it started with getting headaches, and then nightmares… some of them came true.” Tracee turned to look at him, appearing baffled.

“Headaches…?” she repeated. “Do you still get them?” Sam nodded his head, and then turned to see if his brother had appeared. Fortunately, Dean was nowhere in sight. “I don’t get headaches. Guess that’s another difference…”

“This last time, I didn’t actually get a headache,” he told her. “It just came to me. I was talking to Dean, and suddenly I saw images of you.” They had made it to the car. Sighing, Sam leaned against the passenger door. After a moment’s pause, Tracee joined him. He turned to look at her, but her gaze was on her feet. “It was the first time I wasn’t asleep. There wasn’t any pain. I didn’t feel anything except-” Sam stopped, noticing that her eyes were on him. In the light of the morning sun, he could clearly see the brown. They almost looked amber. It reminded him so much of her lying beside in bed yesterday morning. He cleared his throat again. “I didn’t feel anything,” he continued. “I don’t know what it means. I hope it doesn’t mean the ability is getting stronger.”

“Why?”

“I don’t… want to be a hunter for the rest of my life,” Sam answered honestly. “If I keep having these visions…”

“You’ll feel compelled to help those in danger?” Tracee guessed.

Slowly, he nodded his head. “When I started getting them, it was about Jessica. Days before the fire, I saw the way she died.” Sam shut his eyes for a moment, remembering the horror he felt. The guilt. “I didn’t believe what I saw, and then it came true. I could have stopped it. I could have saved her, but I didn’t.” When he opened his eyes, he didn’t look at her. “I won’t be able to ignore what my visions show me—I know that, so if they were to get stronger, I would never leave this life.”

“Is this life so bad?”

“It’s… It’s not for everyone.”

“I see.”

Sam swallowed hard, feeling like he was making a mistake. He should not be telling her to fear the life of a hunter, especially since he wanted her to join them. “Don’t get me wrong,” he hurriedly said. “It’s fine, but personally, _I_ want a normal life. It’s what I’ve wanted for most of my life. I didn’t grow up like other kids, and I resented it. I just want something normal.” Tracee did not make any comment out loud. She did turn away from him though, slight frown on her face. Sam grimaced. He had only made it worse. The two stood there in an awkward silence. Ever since he had met her, none of the silence had been awkward. This. This felt unnatural. “Hey, look, I-”

“So who’s ready for breakfast?” Dean’s excited voice completely drowned out Sam’s. Tracee pushed herself from the car and focused entirely on his brother. “Trace, you are paying, right?” She only chuckled and nodded her head. She pulled her hand from her pocket to reveal a card with a small picture of her on it. Sam was certain that it was one of the cards that his brother had planned on swiping for access. “Awesome! I hear your school is one of the best at cooking.” He went over to the truck and quickly opened it, gesturing for the bags. “You can get in. The door’s unlocked.” Tracee nodded, and the proceeded to open the back door. As soon as she was sitting and the door closed, Sam walked to his brother.

“I messed up, Dean!” he told him in a hushed voice. He sharply turned to him with narrowed eyes. “I don’t think she wants to come with us anymore.” Sam tossed one of the bags in, trying to ignore how tense his brother had become.

“What?! What the hell did you say to her?!” Dean demanded to know. Sam swallowed hard. He then lied and say he didn’t know. He told him that he just got a bad feeling. “ _Really_ , Sammy? Your bad vibrations are really-” Dean stopped, and then took a deep breath. “You want me to convince her?” Sam quickly nodded his head as he tossed the other bag. “Fine, but if this turns out to be a waste of time, and she really doesn’t come with us to Missouri, it’s gonna be your fault and I better not see _one_ poked out lip!”

“Dude, I do not _pout_!” Sam protested, chin dipping to his chest. His shoulders dropped as well. Dean gave him an exasperated look, and then pointed to the Impala.

“Just get in the car.”

Dean watched his brother literally pout before doing as told. Rolling his eyes, he slammed the truck lid down and pulled his key from the lock. Seriously… Nothing had seemed wrong. Tracee had still smiled at him when he approached the two. What did Sam say to her that made him think she had changed her mind? Dean walked around his vehicle to get to the driver’s side. Entering his car, he felt the tension. Something had happened between them in the short time it took for him to return the keys and check out. Trying not to sigh in annoyance, Dean looked through the rearview mirror to see Tracee. She was visibly frowning, gaze outside of the window.

“Ready to go, Miss Daisy?” His question actually got him a smile, causing a grin to form on his own face. She shifted her eyes to him, and then nodded her head. “Then let’s go!” The car ride over to the school was silent, but at least the tense atmosphere had faded. Tracee hadn’t frowned, but she did have a resting Bitchface. Dean chuckled internally. She probably didn’t even realize. It was almost comically similar to Sam’s. After parking, it didn’t take long for the three of them to enter the dining hall. It looked similar to a buffet. Tracee swiped for all of them, and then began showing them around, pointing out what the school had to offer. “There you go, Sammy! All the rabbit food you can have!” Dean pushed his brother in the direction of the salad bar.

Not liking the comment, Sam glared at him, but still headed in that direction anyway. Tracee giggled, bringing his attention back to her. “You want to get omelets with me? They stuff it with any ingredient they have. I like getting all the meats,” she said. Dean hooked his arm with hers.

“That’s my girl!” he said, and then nearly dragged her over to the line of students that were waiting to be served their orders. It was surprising that she hadn’t tried to pull away. Hell, it was a surprise that he so readily reached for her. Without any thought of… _becoming acquainted_ with her. Weird. Shaking the thought from his head for now, Dean focused on the short girl beside him. Sam had told him that she no longer was inclined to going with him. He had to change that. “Trace, let me ask you something.”

“ _Hm_ …?” She distractedly grabbed a glass plate before handing it to him. Dean took it with his free hand. Tracee then grabbed her own plate. “If you’re going to ask me about my decision—don’t.” Dean frowned. “I thought I had made up my mind, but… I guess I haven’t.” What the _hell_ did Sam tell her? “But I do have a question for you. I’m just a little curious.” She waited a moment before continuing. “Samuel said that your dad raised you two to… to hunt. Taught you how think a certain way, to know certain things, in order to hunt. But you two are grown men now.” She looked him in the eye. “Do you still have an obligation to do that?”

“It’s not about obligation, Trace,” Dean stated. “It’s about… saving people, getting the job done so that no one else gets hurt or dies.” He lowered his voice when he noticed the students in front of him were giving him odd looks. “We prevent the mysterious deaths that happen. It’s not an obligation. It’s about doing what’s right.”

“But there’s other hunters out there, right? Do you and Samuel _have_ to hunt?”

“Where’s this coming from?”

“… Samuel told me that he wanted a normal life,” Tracee admitted. Dean grit his teeth in response. He had thought his brother had gotten pass that. After what happened with Jessica, he thought Sam had given up on the ‘apple pie’ type of life. “I understand his reasoning. I really do, but I’m confused as to why he’s hunting in the first place, which led me to think of why you’re hunting, too.” She nudged him a little when he didn’t respond right away. “If you weren’t raised to know about the… hunting, would you still do it? Isn’t there something else you would rather be doing?”

“No.”

“No?”

“Hunting is what I’m good at, Trace. I can help people. There’s no other life for me.” At his admission, Tracee appeared thoughtful. She didn’t comment, though. Dean slipped his arm from hers and sighed. He didn’t know why he had told her all that. “ _Oooh_ , they have lots of bacon!” Since they were next in line, it was a good switch from where their conversation had gone. He ordered his ingredients and watched the student make the omelet. It looked so fluffy and stuffed that his mouth watered in anticipation. The guy slid the loaded omelet onto his plate and he had a hard not eating it in line.

“I’ll have the usual,” Tracee’s voice broke him out of his trance. The guy looked seriously annoyed. Dean stopped sniffing his food and narrowed his eyes at him. The skinny guy only paid attention to the girl beside him. He almost whined her name, and Dean found himself not liking it. “Come on, Dalton. Let’s not argue here. Just give me what I want.” The guy, looking to be in his twenties, huffed a bit—corrected his name; apparently, it was Wally—then proceeded to make her order. By the time he was finished, Tracee had four stuffed omelets on her plate. She smiled indulgently at the guy, which made his cheeks turn red. He still looked annoyed, though.

“What was that about?” Dean asked once they had grabbed silverware and walked away.

“I made out with him a couple months ago. He’s still not over it,” Tracee explained with an uncaring shrug. “Now he wants to gripe and bitch every time I get my usual.” Dean raised a brow, following her to a table in the corner. Admittedly, he was slightly impressed. Mostly, he thought that she would do better than Mr. Ginger over there. The two sat down, and she passed him a fork and a knife.

“Why do you eat so much, anyway?” he asked her. She frowned, jabbing the top omelet with her fork.

“Guess it comes with the whole _not normal_ package,” she replied. It was a little bitter. Dean wondered why. “My metabolism went into overdrive two years ago, so if I don’t get three times the serving, I tend to-”

“Pass out?” he guessed. She sighed, and then nodded. “You sure do that a lot.” It did make sense. Everything else happened around the same time, according to Sam. Except for the dream, of course. Plus, she did weird ass exercises for hours. That had to burn up a lot of calories. Ignoring Tracee’s protest of ‘No I don’t— _shut_ up!’ Dean went for another question that had been bugging him. Sam had told him he had gotten several nightmares and some of them came true. He wondered how much different their premonitions were. “Hey, you have other freaky dreams?” he asked.

“ _Shyeah_ , I guess so,” Tracee answered. “But I didn’t think too much of it until… well, you guys appeared in front of me.”

“When’s the last time you had a dream like that?” Dean began to dig in after asking. Oh wow… It tasted awesome. Orgasmic even. He wanted to stay here forever. So enthralled with the fluffy omelet, he almost missed Tracee’s answer. Apparently, she had a strange dream about a year ago. She had only had it once. Compared to the ‘every single night for a year’ dreams, it seemed a little odd if it were a pattern. With his mouth full of food, he was about to comment, but Sam walked over with a tray.

He set the tray down, only to leave again after a quick look in Tracee’s direction. He had brought over two plates with a salad, fruit salad, and a bowl of pink yogurt. “Oh, so _that’s_ rabbit food.” Tracee’s comment made him almost choke on his food on account of laughing too hard. She gently patted his back just as Sam returned with two cups of clear liquid—looked carbonated—and a small glass bowl of cherries. He slid the additions towards Tracee, who appeared surprised. She then accepted with words and a smiled that reached her eyes. Sam smiled, too, and looked away as though shy.

Dean watched the interaction, curious. He narrowed his eyes suspiciously at the pair, wondering again if Sam had held back about what had happened between them. Tracee slid a fork and spoon over to his brother. “So…” Sam began, picking up the fork first. “Have you… Have you thought about it? Going with us?” He glanced at Dean, but the older brother only shook his head. Honestly, he didn’t know. He hadn’t _tried_ to convince her of anything yet. Tracee stared down at her plate, not responding and keeping them on the edge of their seats. Dean wasn’t sure why he had come to want her to come with. He had thought he had an idea why, but it was becoming foggy the more time he spent with her. Now, he couldn’t explain why he wanted her in the back of his Impala. But not in _that_ way. Weird.

“I’m not paying for gas,” Tracee finally replied.

“The _hell_ you’re not!” Dean blurted at the same time Sam sighed in relief.

“You’re coming then?” he asked for clarification.

Tracee nodded her head. She leaned back in her seat. “My gut is telling me this is what I need to do,” she explained. “So after weighing the pros and cons, pros won out.” She began dunking the cherries in her beverage. “I like you—both of you—and I trust you, too. There’s no better judgement I can go against. So if you’ll still let me, we ride together…”

“We die together,” Dean grinned.

“Are you seriously going to make movie references at every opportunity?” Tracee asked. He enthusiastically nodded his head. She sighed, and then shrugged, returning his grin. “Bad boys for life then.”

“What are you talking about?” Sam asked. Tracee raised a brow, and then snorted, mumbling something under her breath that didn’t sound English. But it sounded completely different from the last time he had heard her not speak English. Guess his brother was right about the multilingual thing.

“Don’t mind him, Trace. Poor Sammy doesn’t get out much,” Dean told her. Both eyebrows raised, and then she nodded her head in understanding. Sam just went on looking confused. Finally—a person who understood and encouraged movie references. It would be a nice change of pace. “So let’s eat, and then head out.”

 

0-0

 


	6. Handbook

“Oh my God, Dean! _Shut up_!”

The older brother, however, did not shut up. He continued to giggle, maliciously describing, in graphic detail, about the time he stuck his hand in a pit of creepy crawlers to pull out skeletal remains. It was the nastiest thing she had ever heard. Dean seemed to take delight in her squirming because even after Sam had wrapped up the story about the Native American curse, the older brother just kept bringing the topic back to disgusting _bugs_. Tracee shuddered as she glared. “What’s the matter, Trace? A strong girl like you can’t be afraid of a few insects!” Tracee threw a twizzler at him. It smacked against his cheek before falling. “ _Ow_ …!” He held his cheek, looking at her with mock pain. “Careful!”

“I hope a bruise forms,” Tracee replied, crossing her arms and turning her head away. She hadn’t used any strength behind the throw, but he didn’t need to know that. Dean snorted, and then bent over to pick the candy from the floor and shove it in his mouth. He chuckled as he chewed. Sam shook his head from his place in the rocking chair at the corner of the room. Tracee and Dean had sat on the beds.

It had taken nearly twelve hours to reach Lawrence from Ashland. By the time the three made it, it was night, so they had decided to get a motel room. They had planned to go to Missouri’s in the morning. Mostly because Dean had neglected to call the woman while they had been on the road. Tracee and Sam had pointed out that no one wanted late night visitors. Dean had pointedly ignored them. During the long trip, the brothers had been retelling jobs that they had done before meeting her. They hadn’t told Tracee the jobs in a specific order, but she had been attentive for every story. For such a long drive, time had seemed to rush by.

The three were now relaxing, after having finished off two pizzas. Well, Sam had had one slice and finished off the chicken caesar wrap that had been bought at one of the rest stops on their trip. It had been Dean and Tracee that had demolished the rest of the pizza. It was amazing that they could still snack on candy after that. Even now, Tracee was reaching for another twizzler. “So what’s the plan for tomorrow?” she asked. Then she ripped apart the red candy with her teeth. Sam sat up a bit straighter. Dean didn’t notice.

“We’ll call Missouri in the morning,” he answered. “We’ll head over about ten and get some answers.”

“Anything I should know?” Tracee questioned. “How credible is this person?”

“Well, she’s a psychic.”

“… Sorry?”

“Yup—can read minds and everything.”

“You don’t think that’s something you should have told me back in Ashland?” Tracee frowned, reaching for another treat, only to discover the plastic wrap was empty. Dean shrugged, uncaringly. The girl scowled as she stood up to throw the trash away. “Great—so I can’t have one impure thought or I’m gonna get scolded. Fun times!” Her sarcasm was equipped with an eye roll.

“Don’t worry. She mostly picks on Dean, anyway,” Sam remarked. For that, he got a smirk from Tracee and an indignant snort from his brother. The younger brother cleared his throat. “So… what are the sleeping arrangements going to be?” No one else had brought it up before. To be honest, none of them had thought about it seriously. For months, it had been just the brothers getting motel rooms. Two people. Two beds. Simple. However, now another person was thrown into the mix—another that happened to be the opposite gender.

“I automatically get a bed since I’m older,” Dean proclaimed. Both of the younger people eyed him in disbelief. He didn’t care. “You two can fight amongst yourself for the remaining bed. My money’s on Trace. Sorry, Sammy.”

Sam made a face at his brother’s lack of faith in him. Then again, Tracee had already proven that she could lift a grown man with little to no effort. He briefly wondered just how strong she was. Then he caught gaze on him, and his thoughts faded. She was giving him a look that made him flush. “I wouldn’t mind wrestling you for it, Samuel,” she said, voice having a slight drawl. Sam swallowed hard before clearing his throat. He then told her that she could claim the bed. Tracee shrugged. “If you say so.” She turned and grabbed large red bag from the floor. “I’m going to get ready for bed then.” She headed to the bathroom, and then shut the door behind her.

Once she was gone, Sam relaxed in his chair. He had shared a bed with Tracee before. It had felt natural then. He doubted he could get away with it now. Despite the laughs and lack of tension on the trip here, Tracee hadn’t given any indication that she still thought about their _alone_ time together. Sam shut his eyes for a moment. It would probably be best to forget it ever happened. He sighed, opening his eyes, only to see Dean staring at him. “What?” he asked, attempting to keep his voice even. His brother looked towards the bathroom door before focusing on him again.

“What happens after?” he questioned in a whisper.

“What do you mean?”

“I mean, after we get some answers from our friendly neighborhood psychic, what’s going to happen?” Dean clarified. “Hell, I like Trace, but what if the answers we get don’t exactly paint her as a good person?”

“Are… Are you suggesting we _kill_ her?!”

“No…!” he exclaimed, glaring. Then his face shifted to show that he had thought about it. Exasperated, Sam groaned his name. “No, no killing!” Dean assured. “Just… Shouldn’t we have some type of plan?” His brother gave him a look. “Don’t look at me like that—I can think of plans sometimes!”

“No, it’s not necessary,” Sam replied. “Whatever we find out won’t change how we think of her.” Slowly, Dean nodded his head. “Whatever we find out, it’ll be up to her what happens after, so… we just wait for her reaction.”

“She’s probably just gonna faint again,” Dean scoffed. He pulled his shirt off over his head and sighed. “I’m taking a shower as soon as she comes ou-” He stopped when he heard the bathroom door open. Tracee walked out, caring her large bag with one hand and wiping her face with cleansing pad. She didn’t take notice of the half-naked man in the room until she set her bag down. She stopped wiping at her face and blinked owlishly at the older brother. The two brothers seemed to freeze in realization. Despite being in close proximity to her, they had no idea how she reacted to things like this. They were all still strangers. Dean pursed his lips before forcing a smile. “What’s the matter, Trace? See something you like?”

For a moment, it seemed as though Tracee did not hear. She merely continued to stare mutely. Then, she rolled her eyes. “No,” she replied, walking by to sit on her bed. She completely missed the affronted look from the older brother. The chuckle from the younger brother was not missed at all. She grinned cheekily, and then looked Dean’s way. “Although, those love handles are to _die_ for…” She continued to wipe at her face, but her free hand reached to tickle Dean’s side.

He yelped in surprise and nearly leapt away from Tracee’s wandering hand, which made Sam laugh a bit louder. Satisfied, she relaxed back on her bed, not caring in the least for the glare being given to her. She hummed lightly as she continued cleaning her face. “Hey! These love handles aren’t for gazing! There’s a _person_ attached to these babies!” Dean exclaimed, hugging himself. He stormed off towards the bathroom and slammed the door. Tracee and Sam stared at the door for a moment before looking towards one another.

“Remind me to find out all his tickle spots later because _that_ was an unexpected reaction.”

“Will do,” Sam chuckled.

The two slipped into an amicable silence. Tracee had gone back to cleaning her face, completely focused on the task, so she did not know of Sam’s continued stare. She had changed into the same clothes she had worn in Ashland—the large grey shirt and the purple shorts. She had pulled her hair back into a low ponytail again, only with a navy blue head scarf hiding most of her dark hair. Sam looked away for just a moment to hide the smile. He could hardly believe that she- Well, he believed it. He believed his visions. There were multiple. He believed that she would be a part of their lives. At least until their dad showed his face.

Tracee suddenly stood up from the bed. She discarded the wet wipe in the small trashcan before turning to face him. “So… You really planning on sleeping in that chair all night?” she asked as she made her way back over to the bed. She began pulling at the bedspread. Sam pressed his lips tightly together before clearing his throat. The large shirt covered a lot, but the shape of her bottom could not be hidden. It made him think of holding and squeezing that bottom. Sam licked his lips and swallowed hard. She looked his way as she crawled under the covers.

“I’ve slept in worse places,” he told her. A slight tug of her lips caused him to smile as well. “Remember that camping trip I told you about?” Her eyes looked up at the ceiling in thought. Then she nodded. “Wasn’t exactly in a forest.” She chuckled lightly. Smile lingering, she sighed a bit.

“Come join me,” she said. In response, his heart jerked in his chest. It had been an unexpected request. “It’s not fair that you have to take the chair just because I’m here. Come join me.”

“I don’t think that’s a good idea,” Sam said even as he moved to stand from the chair. “I move around in my sleep.” More than that, should he really be so close to her? Would he be able to control himself? She shrugged, saying that she did, too. He moved to the other side. “Are you sure?”

“I wouldn’t asked otherwise,” Tracee stated. She reached for the lamp, which was on the end table in between the two beds. She turned the switch, shutting off the artificial light and shrouding the room in darkness. “Besides, I’m cold.”

“Says the person wearing shorts,” Sam remarked, kicking off his shoes. He then yanked off his socks and climbed into bed with her. Tracee’s sarcastic ‘haha’ caused him to grin as he slid underneath the covers. Forcing himself not to reach for her—not to pull her comfortably against him—he lied on his back. Beside him, she had lied on her side, facing away. He was vaguely aware of the shower running in the next room. But his ears were focused on the steady breathing of the woman beside him. So close, but not enough to touch. He listened to her breaths, finding comfort in it even though he couldn’t touch her. Sam didn’t know for how long they laid there on the bed, but eventually, he turned in the same position as her. Pressing his lips together, he swallowed. For a moment, he laid still again. Then he opened his mouth. “Hey…” His whisper was equipped with his hand, sliding closer. Hesitant. “You awake…?”

Moments passed, and only silence was his answer. Then Tracee shifted a bit, feet brushing against his leg. Sam almost sighed in relief. His hand moved closer, fingertips touching her bare arm. “Samuel…” Her voice, drowsy and slow, caused a shiver to run through his body. He never would have thought hearing his name affected him so much. But it did. Made him want her close, whispering it over and over in his ear. “What’s wrong?” she asked.

“Nothing,” he told her. “Just thinking about tomorrow.”

“What about tomorrow?”

“I don’t know—I just wondered if knowing your… origin will change things.”

“That’s silly,” she commented.

“It is?” Sam asked, letting out a dubious chuckle.

“ _Shyeah_ ,” Tracee replied with a half shrug. “That’d be like changing my favorite color just because I found out my parents hated it.”

“What is your favorite color?”

“Blue and red.”

“Two…?”

Tracee shrugged again. “All I’m saying is knowing my _origin_ -” She laughed lightly at that, and Sam felt himself flush in response. “-is not going to change me. I know who I am as a person. Adding a _name_ to the sudden superpowers won’t change anything about me.” That… That was a thought. One he hadn’t had before. “Besides, I’m only going for the proof so I can stop thinking you two are just some _cracked_ -ass white boys in my mind.” This time, Sam was the one to laugh sarcastically. “If your psychic does know more than that—specifically about me—then great. Either way, I’ll walk away with more information than I had before.” She scooted backwards, pressing herself against him. Sam held back a groan and squeezed his eyes shut. He slipped his hand from her arm to her waist. “Now stop thinking so hard, Samuel. Go to sleep and be a good body warmer.”

“ _Heh_ …” Sam grinned. Then, like a good body warmer, he slipped his other arm around her, between her body and the bed. He pressed his nose against her, memorizing the scent. “Dean was right.” Tracee made a small noise of inquiry. “You _are_ a keeper.”

“Shut up,” she told him, giggle in her words, not realizing that he had been half-joking.

 

0-0

 

The next morning, the three piled into the Impala and headed out. As a collective, they had decided to forgo breakfast, at least, until they finished things up with the psychic. At the moment, Tracee sat in the backseat, bobbing her head to very loud music that came from her earphones. She did not like Dean’s taste in music, so she had turned on her iPod as soon as the older brother cranked the engine. Five minutes into the drive, Tracee completely ignored the two brothers in favor of her music and her own thoughts.

She almost let out a sigh, but didn’t want to take the risk of either Dean or Sam hearing. Tracee shut her eyes, wishing the music could drown out her own thoughts. But no, they manifested and scratched at her mind. Haunting to be perfectly honest. Last night… Last night had been great. It had been a fleeting thought, convincing Sam to sleep beside her. It had been nice and warm. So very comforting. Once or twice, before she had fallen asleep, she had felt his lips against her neck. Or maybe that had been her imagination. Whatever the case, it had been great. Not even Dean coming out of the bathroom had broken the intimate embrace underneath the covers.

Then the morning had come, shattering the hope of a real chance. A real chance, she had called it. She hadn’t thought of a ‘real chance’ in a long time—not since Michael. Her ex-boyfriend had ruined thoughts of chances. But Sam had her feeling like… maybe. The way he held her—it had been special. So goddamn unnatural, but not unwelcomed. And the real chance had floated in her mind, and made her want it. Then it had left.

It had been a stupid thought, anyway. While Sam had taken his turn in the shower, Tracee had asked Dean if he had any toothpaste. The older brother had uncaringly pointed towards their bags and rolled back over to get a few more minutes of sleep. She had found the toothpaste, in Sam’s bag, but she had also come across a picture. ‘Jessica 2004,’ it had said. The picture had been of a pretty woman, smiling for the camera. Blonde hair, blue eyes, tall. Physically, the exact opposite of Tracee. In the picture, Sam had been kissing her cheek.

Seeing the picture had killed thoughts of a real chance in an instant. There had been no comparison between her and Jessica. Bet their personalities didn’t exactly sync up either. So why would Samuel Winchester want more from her than a one night stand that hadn’t even supposed to happen? No. It was better to forget any real chance and forget that night ever happened. Sam was off limits, and that was just fine. No matter how many times she had had to hold back her sighs.

She felt the car come to a stop, which caused her to open her eyes. Dean put the car in park. Tracee stared outside the window. The surroundings looked like a normal residential area. She pulled the earphones out, just catching the older brother exclaiming that they had reached their destination. Turning off her iPod, she slid forward. Then she began wrapping the cord around the rectangular device. Just as she was about to open the car door, it was opened for her. She blinked, and then focused. Sam had gotten out of the car and held the door for her. “Thanks,” she muttered, stepping out. She tossed her iPod over her shoulder as she exited the vehicle. “So this is it?” She walked over to stand beside Dean.

“Hope you weren’t expecting too much, Trace,” he grinned at her, and then began moving. Tracee rolled her eyes, falling into step with him as they made their way towards a small two-story home. She felt Sam following them.

“Is one mystical palm symbol too much to ask? How’s anyone supposed to know she’s a psychic?”

“Phonebook,” Sam spoke up. She sharply turned to him with a look of disbelief. He smiled sheepishly as Dean knocked on the door. “She’s the real deal, I promise.” Tracee sighed lightly before turning back to face the door. After another knock from Dean, and feeling Sam stand right behind her, the door opened.

“Well, if it isn’t the Winchester boys, showing up on my doorstep again!” She greeted them with a smile. She was an older, dark-skinned woman with a small afro held back with a dark green hairband. Her dark brown eyes focused on Tracee. Inside, she flinched. Her stare was quite piercing for her innocent grandmother like appearance. “You must be Trace…” She tilted her head and furrowed her brow. “Or is it Cherry?”

“ _Um_ …” Honestly, Tracee didn’t have a response to that. Had she pulled that out of her mind? Did that mean this psychic woman knew about her dream already? Just from looking at her? Whoa. Maybe she was the real deal. “Actually, my name is Tracee Noland.”

Sam loudly cleared his throat, and then asked to come in. The woman seemed to give quite the cheeky look before ushering the three into her home. Tracee cocked a brow in confusion. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Ms. Noland,” the woman greeted as she gestured towards the couch. “My name is Missouri Mosely.” The three sat down, Tracee in the middle of the two brothers. The psychic sat opposite of them in a chair, separated by the coffee table. “So you’re here to learn the truth, are you?” She chuckled lightly. “I’m not too sure if I should be surprised that these boys told you anything.”

“ _I’m_ surprised…” she murmured. “Not something you should exactly tell without evidence, which is what they did. They told me that you can prove their… hunting lifestyle.”

“You seem to trust them already,” she remarked. “And despite not knowing what you are, they trust you.” Odd choice in wording, Tracee couldn’t help but notice. It felt like she knew for sure with the brothers, but didn’t know for her. Shouldn’t she know matter of fact? But the thought was fleeting in favor of shifting the topic to her origin.

“ _Do_ you know?” she inquired.

“I’m sorry, child, I don’t.”

“What do you mean you don’t _know_?” Dean questioned. “You immediately knew stuff about me and Sam!”

“Boy, don’t you raise your voice at me!” the psychic retorted. Dean immediately shrank back in his seat and hurriedly apologized. The woman narrowed her eyes on him for just a moment longer before turning a softer gaze on Tracee. “I can’t get a proper read on you, dear. You _are_ human, but something is preventing me from really seeing you.” She shook her head a bit. “I’ve never encountered this before. There’s a… a block or maybe the right word is ward.”

“Ward…?” Tracee repeated. “You mean like a shield or a barrier?”

“It could explain why I can’t sense everything there is to your aura,” Missouri said. “We could be dealing with a very powerful protective spell.”

“Hold on,” she shook her head. “A _spell_? If this spell is so protective, why could Samuel see me in his visions? But you can’t get a read on me?”

“That I don’t know. However, in my opinion, Sam’s abilities are more powerful than mine,” Missouri stated. Tracee felt both brothers tense at her words. Without consciously thinking of it, she placed her hands on either brothers’ closest knee. They relaxed, and it put her at ease, too. If the older woman took notice, she didn’t bother to comment. “A spell like this has to have a focus. Are you wearing jewelry perhaps?”

Tracee lightly scratched at her neck. She hardly ever wore jewelry. Studded earrings, sure, but nothing too extravagant. She hadn’t worn earrings today. “My necklace…” She slowly pulled down her thin sweater’s neckline, revealing the blue pendent. A smile crossed her face as she lifted the chain and released her neckline. “This is the only thing I don’t take off.”

“Never?” Dean asked.

“Nope,” Tracee shook her head. “My father gave it to me—told me to never take it off.” She furrowed her brow. Now that she thought about it, it did seem a bit strange. “He said it’d keep me safe…” Missouri stretched her hand out. Instinctively, Tracee reared back and clutched the pendant. It was small, simple, and shaped like an oval with an intricate silver design. The pebble like pendant was precious to her. She had never let anyone touch it. Never mind take it from her. A comforting hand lightly touched her back. She shifted her wary gaze to Dean. He frowned, but nodded his head in a reassuring manner. Internally, she sighed, and then maneuvered her hands behind her neck to unhook the chain. Tracee grasped the pendant before it fell to her lap, and then set it down on the coffee table.

As soon as the jewelry no longer had contact with her, Missouri let out a sharp gasp, putting the three on alert. Their gazes snapped to the psychic to see her eyes had seemed to roll back into her head. Only the whites of her eyes could be seen. “What the fu-” Dean’s exclamation was cut short due to Missouri crying out and clutching her head. The three stood up in alarm, but did not know what to do.

“You…! **_You are owned_**!” Her voice dropped to a deep level that a human woman should not be able to do. Tracee’s eyes widened, shocked, and mentally praying her head wouldn’t start rotating. Her gaze dropped to the pendant a split second before she grabbed it. Immediately, Missouri sank back down in her chair, appearing exhausted. Her dark brown irises had returned and she breathed heavy as though she had done something strenuous. “Oh my God…” Her voice, back to normal, sounded softer than before. She covered her mouth with her hand and squeezed her eyes shut.

“ _Um_ …” Again, Tracee was at a loss for words. She hugged her necklace close to her chest. “That wasn’t possession, right?”

“I don’t know what the hell that was!” Dean had put his arm around her shoulders during the abnormal reaction. Sam had grabbed her other hand. “Missouri! Missouri, are you okay?!” The woman shook her head, but her hand came up, swiping at the air. An attempt to reassure, but it did not cause the three to relax.

“I’m fine… I’m fine,” she said. She opened her eyes, stare on Tracee. “Oh my God,” she repeated. She visibly swallowed. “You… You’re a-” A laugh slipped out. “To think I’d be able to meet one of you. So many years had passed, I didn’t think it would happen.” She sharply turned to Dean. “If a reference to _The Exorcist_ reference comes from your mouth, you gon _wish_ I was possessed by a demon!”

“Madam,” Tracee drew Missouri’s stern gaze away from the cowering brother. “If that wasn’t possession… what the bloody hell was it?!”

“I apologize… I was not ready for such an aura,” the psychic explained. Confused, Tracee looked to her right. Sam looked back at her, but shook his head. He hadn’t felt anything, it seemed. “As powerful as he is, Sam doesn’t have the exact same ability as me,” Missouri explained, having had seen the exchange. “My abilities reacted to the power in your aura.”

“Power…? Then you saw—really saw what I am?” Tracee asked. The older woman nodded, and then gestured for the three to sit back down. They were clearly hesitant, but did so in order to get more information. “Then?” The prompt caused Missouri to shut her eyes for a moment.

“Let me see if I can remember the words…” she muttered. Then she opened her eyes. “Into every generation, there is a chosen one. One girl in all the world. She alone will wield the strength and skill to stand against the vampires, the demons, and the forces of darkness; to stop the spread of evil and the swell of their numbers. She is the _Slayer_.”

Tracee’s eyes grew wide. Shivers raked across her skin, sensing a familiarity with the words. But that couldn’t be. It was the first time she had ever heard them. But the shivers didn’t leave and neither did the familiarity. “Slayer…?” she repeated, clasping her necklace back in place. “That’s like… a more aggressive word for hunter.”

“More like hunter is a more docile word for slayer,” Missouri retorted with a slight snort. “The Slayer came first. Hunters came much later.”

“Those words you said—what was that?” Sam questioned. “One girl against all the darkness? How is that even possible?”

“A prophecy—one that brought hope in dark times,” she replied. “The world was very different before the birth of the first Slayer. Evil ran rampant. Horrible things went on with no end. The human population was stagnant. Then the Slayer came, and changes happened. She was hope for humanity. She was a nightmare for everything else. The Slayer was stronger, faster, and more durable. She fought. She killed. She did her duty when it came to _any_ form of evil. She shifted the balance of the world and gave humanity a chance. Skip ahead a couple of generations, hunters came into existence, following the lead of the Slayer. Normal humans with the knowledge of how to kill supernatural evils—it started with the Slayer. It’s why the world is the way it is now. Even if the hunters of today don’t believe in the Slayer anymore or assume she’s only a myth.”

“Whoa…” Tracee murmured, a slight grin had formed. “I’m the Slayer?”

“Not the Slayer. _A_ Slayer,” Missouri corrected.

“You said chosen _one_ ,” Dean stated. Then he looked as though a thought crossed his mind. “Trace’s dream…”

“Dream?”

“ _Uh_ , yeah,” he almost seemed hesitant on speaking. “Trace, here had a dream where she saw other… girls—other slayers, I’m guessing.”

“Dean…” Sam narrowed his eyes at his brother.

“You don’t want to share it,” Missouri said.

“Somethings are meant to stay private,” Sam said, frowning at the psychic. For a moment, or two, the room stood in an intense silence, three pairs of eyes focused on the older woman. Then finally, Missouri sighed and nodded her head. “So there are more slayers out there—like her, but there wasn’t always, right? I mean, that prophecy no longer applies since there’s more than one.”

“That’s correct,” she replied. “For thousands of years, there was only the Slayer. When the Slayer died, another was called, at random, to take her place. Two years ago, the Slayer and a witch were responsible for the activation of _all_ potential slayers. Very strong magic made it so. Any girl that had the potential became a slayer. Any girl that has the potential will become a slayer. With innate fighting skills, and prophetic dreams involving fighting, even a new Slayer could defeat evil. Slayers were activated—not called—all around the world.” She paused for a moment and shut her eyes. “Unfortunately, all these girls weren’t as protected as you. A lot of them died before they were activated. Some died after, not knowing about their new abilities. They were killed.”

“If slayers are so powerful, how can they be killed?” Dean questioned. “And who’s killing them?”

“They’re human—just like you and me,” Missouri stated. “They can be killed as any other human. Might take more time or effort, but there’s no special way to kill a Slayer. And they are being killed by any evil who could sense their power. You see, one Slayer can stop the spread of evil—avert an apocalypse or two. Just imagine what an entire army could do.”

“Whoa…” Tracee repeated. Then she shook her head. “How do you know all this? I can’t believe you can pull things like this from anyone’s mind.”

“I have a few connections,” Missouri simpered. She shifted in her seat before moving to stand. “Speaking of… I have something here for you. Like I said, I didn’t think one of you would come knocking. It’s been upstairs, gathering dust. I’ll go get it for you.” She walked out of the room. Seconds later, her footsteps could be heard going up a flight of stairs. Once her steps couldn’t be heard anymore, Tracee let out a shuddering breath. She lowered her head and rested her hands on her knees.

“What?” Sam asked her, shifting close. “What’s the matter?”

“You gonna faint?”

Tracee half-heartedly glared at the older brother before sighing. “All this… It’s pretty cool,” she admitted. She felt Sam tense again. Easy thing to do because he was shoulder to shoulder with her. Had he thought she would be overwhelmed with the information? Please. The origin of the Slayer was just a _tip_ of the whole supernatural iceberg. Another world she hadn’t known about before—overwhelming. Finding out that she had a duty in that world—not exactly held in the same regard. At least not in her mind. She was a Slayer, along with hundreds of others. There was no need to get bent out of shape about it. Besides, having super strength _was_ cool. So what was the problem…? That was another matter entirely. “Slayers and hunters—what you do is cool. And I have no problem with it.”

“Then… You’re _not_ gonna faint?”

“No, Dean,” Tracee attempted not to roll her eyes. “I’m not going to faint.” Her fingers lightly caressed the pendant that hung from her neck. “I’m protected… by the first gift my father gave me when I was eleven. He drilled it into my head to never take it off because it’d keep me safe. I thought he meant from normal stuff that could happen to anyone. Could he have known about my potential?”

“Could your father be a hunter?” Dean asked, voice cautious. “I mean, he might have known about the dangers and gave that to you as a precaution.”

“No way,” Tracee replied. “My father is the smartest man I know, so maybe he does know about ghosts and demons, but an actual hunter? No way. From what you two told me, being a hunter requires a nomadic type of life. My father raised me in one town. He didn’t travel. And he always came home from work.”

“What’s he do?” Sam asked.

“He’s an accountant,” she said. “Not as cool, I assure you.”

“He’s a nerd?” Dean chuckled.

“Don’t talk about my father. Those are fighting words.”

“… He did give you the necklace, though,” Sam stated. “But why did you say it’s the first gift he gave you? When you were eleven?”

“What about it?”

“Eleven is a little old to be getting a first gift,” Dean commented. “Hell, I was given the gift of learning how to shoot when I was seven.”

“… I’m adopted. My father took me in when I was eleven.” Following her statement, the only response was silence. “My biological parents died in a crash when I was ten. I became a ward of the state for, I think, six months? Then he came along and adopted me. I was eleven at the time.” Dean murmured her name, sounding apologetic. “Don’t do that,” she told him. “I was ten. It’s been over a decade—I’m fine.” Again, her words were meant with silence. “My father is my father in every sense of the word except blood.”

“Hey…” Sam moved his hand over hers. “I am sorry. I should have realized that you hadn’t been using father and dad interchangeably. Your dad is the reason you started learning different languages, isn’t he?” Tracee nodded her head, and then told him her father only knew two languages. She repeated that her _dad_ had known seventy-three. “Okay… Okay, so your father might not be a hunter, but he gave you that necklace. He hid you from this life, but still trained you for it. I think he knew that you would be a Slayer.”

“That remains to be seen,” Tracee said, slipping her hand from underneath his and shifting her body away. She heard him sigh, but she didn’t exactly care at the moment. Her father may have instructed her to do the ritual, but he knew jackshit about actual fighting. He wasn’t a hunter. But she couldn’t deny the coincidence of her necklace—of the supposed _focus_.

“So why don’t you call him up? Ask daddy about the necklace?” Dean suggested.

“He’s on an extended business trip in Europe. He doesn’t like the international fees all that much. He calls me, but I can’t call him or the phone bill will be atrocious.”

“When’s the last time you spoke to him?” Sam asked.

“A couple months ago. I’ll talk to him when I can,” Tracee said in a dismissive matter. “Whether or not he knew, it’s an issue, but not my biggest concern. I’ll find out later.” For a moment, she shut her eyes. “My biggest concern is what happened two years ago. I fell from the school’s library, and he rushed home. Moved me out of my dorm room and into my apartment. I didn’t think about it at the time because I was confused and afraid, but no one ever talked about my miraculous survival. Did my father have something to do with that? He shouldn’t have that much power. And now that I’m thinking about it, should I have been adopted so quickly? A single man wanting a child out of the blue? Long procedures and extensive background checks would have been done, right?” She narrowed her eyes. “Six months seem short… if you think about.”

“I’m no expert at adoption, but that does sound suspicious,” Dean remarked. “Doesn’t sound like something a hunter would do.”

“What? Raise and train a soldier? Yeah, that doesn’t sound like a hunter at all,” Sam said, sarcasm evident.

“He’s _not_ a hunter!” Tracee shot back, turning her eyes sharply to the younger brother.

“Then _what_ is he?!” Sam raised his voice. “He took you in just a few months after your parents died. He immediately gave you protection, and then gave you a _sword_! Your father knew about you and _prepared_ for that day two years ago! He kept all these secrets from you. You don’t have to defend him!”

Tracee abruptly stood up from the couch. She turned to them, but her sharp eyes were turned on Sam. “Let’s get something straight.” Her voice dropped low and coiled like a snake. “You are transporters—that’s _it_. Don’t you _dare_ presume you know me or my father. You did as requested and brought me here. Good job. Now _piss_ _off_.” She stormed away, leaving the two brothers on the couch. She basically stomped up the steps. Yes, she had gotten stroppy. Yes, she had behaved a bit irrational. But it had made her angry. Terribly angry. Not because of Sam. No. If what he said was true, that meant she didn’t know her father as well as she had thought. And to have it thrown in her face? It was the worst.

She reached the top of the steps, and then leaned against the wall. Guilt had plagued her for talking to him like that. Sam wasn’t just a transporter, and neither was his brother. If they actually left her here… she’d lose them, and her iPod. She had money, so she could get back home no problem. That iPod, though, wouldn’t been seen again. She should just go back down the stair and apologize. But she sighed and kept moving. “Madam…!” Tracee called out.

“In here,” Missouri’s voice called back. Tracee followed the sound of her voice down a hallway. It led to a large bedroom. The psychic sat on the edge of the bed, holding a large leather-bound book in her lap. The size of it was amazing. Not even her college textbooks could compare. She smiled, eyes lighting up at the sight of it. It looked like a tome. It was vaguely familiar to her. “Sorry, took me awhile to remember where I put it,” she explained. “Here we go. This, to put in simple terms, is the Slayer handbook—sort of a training manual for Slayers. It has all sorts of content in it. Magic, demons, all sorts of information about supernatural creatures. Because of that, it’s also your proof.” The older woman stood up and presented the large book to Tracee.

“It’s called ‘Vampyr,’ though…” she commented. She held the book in one arm and opened the front cover with her free hand. On the inside, the very first page had the same words Missouri had spoken earlier. The prophecy about the Slayer. “I think I remember now… I had a dream about this book, about reading these words. Whoa…”

“There’s only a few copies of that book in existence,” Missouri mentioned.

“Where did you get it?” Tracee asked.

“… Let’s say an old friend gave it to me. Believed that one day a Slayer would come for it. Now it’s yours. I believe you are the Slayer I am supposed to give it to.” An old friend, she had said. More than likely, she wasn’t going to get any more information regarding her old friend. Still, this was a lot of information and she couldn’t wait to start reading. Tracee shut the book and held it with both arms, pressing it against her chest.

“You’re giving this to me?” she questioned. “How do you know that’s the right call? How do you know I’m the right Slayer?”

“I’ve had that book for over thirty-five years. I have used it to help other hunters. To shed light on whatever tragedies they may have encountered.”

“You never gave one of them the book?”

“No,” Missouri shook her head. “There are creatures in that book who aren’t evil. Hunters would take that information and run with it, especially those who are in the middle of grieving. Like the boys’ father. That man was a wreck when I first met him.” The woman shook her head and closed her eyes.

“So… there are greys in this world?” Tracee murmured. “To hear Dean and Samuel tell it, that’s not the case.”

“A grieving man raised them,” Missouri reminded her. The younger girl nodded her head in understanding. Of course. It wouldn’t be unusual for bigotry to form. “Truthfully, you have no obligation to this world.” She gestured to the pendant. “Someone didn’t want you involved regardless. Still, it’s your choice. There are hundreds of slayers now.”

“Aren’t there… hundreds of hunters? Why are Samuel and Dean obligated to this life?”

“You care for them already?” When Tracee did not answer, Missouri continued. “Those boys are still grieving. This life is what’s normal to them.” The girl held back a scoff. Not according to Sam. He _wanted_ normal. She shook the thoughts from her head, knowing that they wouldn’t do any good. “You have to decide what you want your normal to be.” Tracee frowned, gaze shifting down to the book. “Let me say something to you. That necklace should have blocked any type of sensing ability, but Sam got through. Those boys found you, and I don’t think that’s coincidence.”

“Are you talking about destiny, madam?”

“What I’ve witnessed, I’m not sure what to call it,” Missouri admitted. “But by fate or free will, the three of you ended up together. What happens now is your choice.” Tracee clutched the book in her arms again.

“Thank you,” she muttered, nodding her head. “If I have any more questions, would it be okay to call?”

“Of course. Sam has my number.”

 “And if I already burned that bridge?” Tracee tried not to grimace. Missouri tittered softly before telling her that everything would be fine. Sighing lightly, the girl turned to go.

“Oh, and one more thing…”

“Yes?”

“Those boys have a misconception about what happened to you two years ago,” Missouri told her. “Best to get that clear before you leave.” Tracee blinked twice. A misconception…? The big thing two years ago had been when she had fallen… Oh. Right. They must have heard the story and assumed the worst. “Dean thinks you took a dive off the roof. Sam doesn’t know what to believe.”

“Thank you,” she repeated, understanding clear on her face. She would have to clear that up. It wouldn’t do any good for them to think of her that way. If they were any still here for her to explain the situation. “Goodbye, madam.” The psychic waved her off. Tracee left the room and made her way downstairs. The two were no longer sitting on the couch. Her insides clenched painfully. They had left? Well, she had blown up at them. Not too surprising. The logic didn’t make the ache in her belly go away. She would have to look up some traveling information. With that thought in mind, she opened the door, and then reached for her cell phone in the pocket of her jeans.

Just as he fingers touched the device, her eyes lifted to where the Impala had been parked. She stopped all movement, realizing that it was still there. The brothers were standing on the driver side, leaning against the car. With their lips moving, there were obliviously talking. They hadn’t noticed her yet. Tracee left out a shuddering sigh of relief. It was still unnatural that Dean and Sam could have her behaving like this, but she wasn’t about to resist it any longer. Probably hadn’t resisted from the beginning. Swallowing, she stiffly moved from the front porch and down the steps. As she moved closer, Dean looked away from his brother and spotted her coming. He nudged Sam and gestured to her. Nervously, she crossed the street. The younger brother glanced away as she stood in front of them.

“You’re still here…” Tracee stated.

“I don’t really know what ‘piss off’ means,” Dean said with a shrug of his shoulders. The girl tried to smile, but it fell flat. She still felt guilty for it even if he had tried to make light of the situation. “You know, you sound really British when you’re mad.”

“ _Shyeah_ … My father is from the United Kingdom. Sometimes, I get the accent when I’m… upset. I want to apologize for that, by the way,” she said. “It was uncalled for and untrue. All of it. I’m sorry.”

“ _Nah_ , no hard feelings,” Dean said. He nudged his brother again. “Right, Sammy?”

“Yeah,” Sam cleared his through before shifting his gaze to her. “I get it. I do. I shouldn’t have… He’s your father, and I didn’t have the right.”

“It’s not about having the right, Samuel,” Tracee replied. “You gave your opinion. I overreacted. That’s it. Can you accept my apology?” Sam sighed, and then nodded his head. It was enough. She took a few steps in his direction, and then lifted the large book onto the roof the car. She then slid her arms around the taller sibling. To her relief, he didn’t tense or recoil. It took a beat, but his arms came around her as well. It felt really really nice. Safe and warm. Like whoa… And he smelled so good, too. Might have been the best hug she had ever been a part of. Tracee might have let out a tiny moan as he squeezed her.

Sam slowly let his lowered his arms, but not before rubbing her back. He cleared his throat as she stepped back. “So what’s the book?” he asked. He reached for it, pulling it from the roof. “ _Vampyr_ …? All things vampire? Didn’t think information on vampires was so broad.”

“Not just vampires,” Tracee corrected. “According to the madam, there’s all sorts of creatures in there. Mostly, it’s a Slayer Handbook, though—a training manual.” She paused for a moment to take the book from Sam. “I’ve decided to learn about these things and test the waters with this lifestyle.”

“Really…?” Dean asked, voice sounding incredulous. “You want to hunt?”

“I want to _learn_ ,” Tracee stated. “That being said… It probably won’t happen unless I find two adequate, experienced instructors?”

“You want to come with us?” Sam’s lips spread in an open-mouth grin. It was too cute. No. Off limits. This was temporary, anyway. Testing the waters with the two of them, and then deciding if she really wanted this type of life. That’s it. Tracee pursed her lips and nodded. “That’s… I…” He seemed at a loss. Brown eyes looked to the older brother to fill in the words. Dean rolled his eyes, but chuckled.

“If you’re up to it, sure, why not? Super strength’s got to come in handy,” he said.

“Great! Let’s go back to Ashland then!”

“… Why?” Dean asked. “That’s a lot of gas, Trace.”

“ _Um_ … because I have a _job_ I need to resign from,” Tracee answered flatly. “And I need to move my stuff out of my apartment and back home. Besides, you two go back and forth across the country, anyway. Don’t see how gas matters to you anymore. We can stay at my house while we’re there.”

“Throw in food from your school’s buffet and you’ve got a deal.”

“Cool.”

“Awesome.”

“Can we go now?” Sam asked.

“Before we do that, I need to say something…” Tracee stated. “I don’t know how you heard it, but two years ago, I fell from the roof of the school’s library.” She watched as both brothers froze, and then exchange a look. They were good at exchanging words silently. She wondered if she would be able to decipher that language one day… The girl breathed in through her nose, and then released. “Originally, the roof was a place I went to in order to do the ritual since I had excess. I worked there, so I had a key. But that day, I was crying my eyes out. I broke up with my boyfriend after six years, so… I went up there because I couldn’t blubber in my dorm room.”

“Michael…?” Sam asked. Tracee nodded, but she did notice Dean’s brow furrow in confusion. “I’m sorry.”

“I told you he’s not important,” she said. “He may have been the reason that I was up there. But he’s not the reason I fell. And I did _fall_. I want that perfectly clear to you—both of you.” She looked towards the older sibling. “I did not take a dive off the roof.” Dean looked away for a moment, muttering something along the lines of ‘Damnit, Missouri.’ “I was standing in the middle, actually. Then, I felt like I was being pushed. But the push came from inside of me. So much heat—it felt like flames had erupted inside. It knocked me off my feet and over the edge. I don’t remember the impact or the actually fall, really. Just feeling this incredible rush.”

“So that’s when you were _activated_?” Sam questioned.

“ _Shyeah_ , I think so.” She pursed her lips. “I just want to make it clear that I’m not suicidal. I’m not going to off myself.”

“You don’t seem like the type anyway,” Sam remarked. She smiled at him, and he chuckled.

“Yeah, whatever, I already knew that,” Dean said. “Let’s go.”

 

0-0

 

From her window, Missouri watched the trio finally climb into the car. She narrowed her eyes, watching as the car pulled away. A slight smirk touched her face. She shook her head, mind still whirling from what she had witnessed. “Amazing…” she muttered. “You hear whispers and read stories, but to actually experience it… Amazing.” She turned to her sudden visitor. “They shouldn’t be able to do that. I should have seen glimpses of her dream at the very least. But they all blocked me. Dean, too. Are you sure-?”

“Yes,” she replied. “The pendant, and a few other factors, prevented many things. This is why I came to you. It is why Samuel Winchester was given those visions. It is why Tracee Noland was given the year-long dream.” Her voice, soft and almost otherworldly, echoed in the room. Missouri’s gaze was completely on the being.

“What about Dean?”

“Soon,” she said. Her eyes glowed a bit. “Then what you have seen will be complete.”

“Soon is what you told me thirty-five years ago…” Missouri stated. The being smirked coyly. “Should I keep in touch?”

“Yes, please. I will return periodically.”

“Will you reveal yourself to them?”

“Perhaps. However, it will not be necessary. Things are already shifting. I thank you for your cooperation.”

“If it’s really how you say, I’d do all this and more. I won’t stand by this time, and let those things happen.”

“I’m glad we are in agreement.” The being turned to go, but then halted. “Oh, might I suggest watching for the Red Witch? The removal of the pendant might have been enough for a target.”

“I’ll keep an eye out. May I ask about the angel?”

“Soon.”

 

0-0

 


	7. Start

In rapid succession, Tracee fired off the handgun. Dean watched, in disappointment, as none of the targets were taken down. They had been at this for a little over an hour. Tracee had not made any progress. Either she hadn’t been listening to instructions, or she had terrible aim. Dean was willing to believe it was the aim. The girl had been nothing but attentive. With a frustrated groan, Tracee lowered the gun and squinted in the distance. She groaned again, realizing the row of empty beer bottles, plastic soda containers, and coffee tins were still standing upright. “This is so stupid!” she announced.

The three had left Ashland after spending the night in Tracee’s home. She had packed a few more things, other than the large red bag, turned in a resignation letter, and left behind a note for her father—just in case he returned home before calling. They had hit the road as soon as the sun rose. They had stopped to stretch their legs, and find a decent route to take in search of a job, so Dean had suggested target practice. So far, his suggestion was only making Tracee despise guns. With her free hand, she scratched at her neck. The media made shooting a gun seem so easy. Hell, it had taken her ten minutes to figure out the safety. Dean had just handed her the gun, and then laughed when she had tried to fire. She would have been happy with just one bullet meeting a target— _grazing_ a target—at this point.

“Don’t worry, kiddo, you’re get it eventually,” Dean cheered her on.

“Don’t call me that,” Tracee griped. “You’re _only_ two years older.”

“ _Still_ older, and that’s what counts. Try again.” Tracee rolled her eyes, but lifted the gun regardless. Dean hadn’t offered any pointers, so really she had been winging it this whole time. When asked for advice, the older sibling had only shrugged and told her trial and error was the way his old man had taught him. Before she actually fired the gun, Dean held up his hand. “Hold on,” he said, reaching into his jacket pocket. He pulled out his vibrating cell phone. “I’m gonna take this. Sam will take over.” Tracee shrugged, and then glanced behind her. The younger sibling had been looking over a map, which was spread over the hood of the Impala. He, and the car, were a few meters away, stationed on the side of an empty road.

Dean walked towards the Impala, flipping his cell open. He held the phone up to his ear whilst gesturing for Sam and pointing at Tracee. The younger sibling folded up the map and put it in his jacket pocket, seemingly glad to switch tasks. He jogged over, passing his brother with a light tap to his shoulder. Tracee turned to face the targets just as he reached her. “Find anything?” she asked, lifting the gun again.

“Pennsylvania,” he answered. “Though, there are reports of construction. I found a route that might get us there faster.” Tracee nodded in understanding. She felt Sam’s stare as she fired the gun. “ _Hm_ …” His small noise was heard even with the echoing crack of shots. Again, no target had felt the impact of a bullet. “Maybe since you’re new to this, you should try holding the gun with two hands.” Blinking, she lowered the weapon slightly before squeezing that handle with both hands. “That should give you a more steady hand,” he told her. “And your stance…” He moved behind her, hands sliding down her sides until they rested on her hips. Tracee tried hard not to flinch as he shifted her. He maneuvered his leg in between hers and spread them apart a bit further. “Keep your back and your arms straight.” She felt his body against hers and almost stopped breathing as a result. His hands had yet to leave her hips. And his voice had been only a hair’s length away from the crown of her ear. “Relax and pick a target.”

Sure. Just relax. Cool… Only, relaxing was out of the damn question. How could she relax with his body against hers? How could she possibly concentrate on a target with Sam’s hands gripping her waist? She could feel his fingertips touching her skin because of the low rise jeans she chose to wear today. Her shirt had come untucked due to the contact. Bloody hell, she needed a distraction. “Why do hunters even need guns?” she questioned, marveling at the fact that her voice came out steady. “Do bullets actually work on the supernatural?”

“Some,” Sam admitted. To her relief, he released her and returned to his position on her side. “We use shotguns with salt rock. Silver bullets are ammo, too. Knowing how to use a gun comes in handy.” Tracee nodded again, and then took a deep breath. She managed to relax, and then fired a single shot. The metal coffee container seemed to explode because of the impact of the bullet. “Great! You did it!” Tracee frowned and lowered the gun, and then flatly told him she had been aiming for the beer bottle, which had been five targets away. “Maybe you should just leave the guns to Dean and me,” Sam suggested, carefully taking the gun from her hands.

Her frown deepened. She _hated_ guns. Crossing her arms, Tracee had been about to retort, but Dean caught their attention with his shout. The two turned to see the older sibling waving them over. Without another word, the two headed over to the Impala. “Just got a call from an old friend,” he stated. “We’re not going to Pennsylvania.” He received questioning looks from the both of them. “Her father was killed last night. She thinks it might be our kind of thing.” Sam’s disbelieving scoff was hard to miss. “Yeah, believe me. She never would have called—never—if she didn’t need us.” He got into the car, ready to go. “Come on! You coming or not?”

The younger sibling furrowed his eyebrows and frowned, appearing slightly irritated that their plans had been altered. His hazel eyes looked in Tracee’s direction, but she only shrugged. Without a word, she opened the back door on the passenger side and climbed in. Seconds later, Sam followed suite for his door. Once they were all in, Dean wasted no time in turning the car on and driving back onto the road. Without prompting, Dean began telling them the basics of what had gone down, and where they were actually headed. Sam couldn’t help but notice he had left out crucial information about this girl. Like her relationship to him. So, after an hour into the drive, Sam couldn’t keep his thoughts to himself.

“By _old friend_ , you mean…” he began, hoping his brother would fill in the blanks.

“A friend that’s not new,” Dean replied. Why had he thought his brother would give him a straight answer? In the back, Tracee chuckled. Sam glanced at the rearview mirror. Her brown eyes were staring outside of the window, but the upturn of her lips gave her away. Beside him, his brother smirked, possibly glad that his sarcasm was being encouraged. Sam shook his head and rolled his eyes. He could tell Tracee and his brother would be feeding off each other’s brand of humor.

“Yeah, thanks,” Sam muttered, attempting not to scowl. Dean merely continued to drive, eyes focused solely on the road ahead of them. Still, he couldn’t let this topic go. After all, his brother was not bragging about this girl. It was odd. There must have been something about her… “So her name’s Cassie, huh?” He crossed his arms. The twitch in his brother’s eye wasn’t missed. This was a sore subject for Dean, and he wanted to know why. “You never mentioned her…”

“Didn’t I?” Dean asked, feigning confusion. Sam was quick to give a negative answer. For a moment, his brother seemed hesitant to speak again. “Yeah, we went out,” he said in a hurried manner.

“You mean you dated someone? For more than one night?” Sam asked incredulously.

“ _Ooh_ , is that not a common occurrence?” Tracee questioned. She shifted as far as she could to the middle—as much as her seatbelt managed to let her.

“Oh no,” Sam informed her. “Dean’s got a ‘new town, new girl’ type of routine.”

“You _slag_!” she responded, sounding sarcastically offended.

“I don’t know what that means, but stop!” Dean grumbled. She merely giggled.

“So this Candi is _special_ , is she?” Tracee voice became just a bit higher.

“It’s Cassie,” Dean corrected, appearing annoyed. “And yeah, we dated, so what? Dad and I were working a job in Athens, Ohio. She was finishing up college. We went out for a couple of weeks.”

“And…?” Sam prompted, sensing the simple explanation was not all that happened between them. Dean only shrugged. The car was quiet for a moment, each occupant thinking of the older brother’s simple admission. “Look, it’s terrible about her dad, but it kinda sounds like a standard car accident. I’m not seeing how it fits with what we do. Which, by the way, how does she _know_ what we do?” His brother answered with silence, and he even turned his head to look outside the driver’s window. Sam’s mouth dropped opened in realization. “You _told_ her?! You told her the _secret_!” Again, Dean chose not to answer, but his silence was enough. “Our big family secret rule number one—we do what we do and we shut up about it! For a year and a half, I do nothing but lie to Jessica, and you go out with this chick in _Ohio_ a couple of times and you tell her everything?”

“ _Uh_ … What’s wrong with chicks from Ohio?” Tracee asked before Dean could react. Sam snapped his mouth close. He had forgotten, for just a moment, they had been riding around with a chick from Ohio. He swallowed hard, and then turned his head to look at her. She had a scowl on her face and one brow cocked up in annoyance. Her arms were also crossed. Sam quickly tried to explain he didn’t mean anything by the location. “Oh really…? Because it sounded like you put an emphasis on Ohio like it was a _bad_ thing.” Her voice was beginning to let out the British accent. When it happened, her words came out quick and sharp. Not like the light voice he was used to hearing. “And correct me if I’m wrong, but weren’t you wanting to spill the beans not even _two_ days after you met me?”

“That…” Sam cleared his throat. “That was different.”

“Oh, please enlighten me about the difference between me and Candi—two chicks from _Ohio_."

“… Dean… Dean didn’t have a vision about her!” he replied, almost desperately.

“Dean didn’t have a vision about her,” Tracee repeated in a mocking sort of way. “Whoa… That’s some logic. Did you hear that, Dean? If only you had a _vision_ about her, we wouldn’t be talking about this! Because then, it would have been _a-okay_!”

“Tracee…” Sam tried. Clearly, his comment had struck a nerve. However, he did not know what to say in order to fix that. The woman behind him huffed lightly before reaching for her iPod. She looked out of her window, glaring at the outside world whilst putting in her earphones.

“I’m done talking,” she announced. Without another word, she turned on her device, causing very loud rap— _hip hop_ , Dean had corrected him numerous times because apparently, there was a difference?—music to prevent her from hearing any other sound. Sam faced forward, slumping in his seat. Beside him, Dean grinned, which caused the other sibling to tell him to shut up.

 

0-0

 

The rest of the trip had been filled with silence. Well, the radio had blared with music, but the silence had been heavy. Tracee had refused to make any noise. Sam _had_ planned on asking to read her Slayer handbook with her during the ride—an excuse to sit by her, really. Any thought of joining her in the backseat to discuss nothing and everything had fallen flat, though. She obviously had not appreciated his tone when referring to her hometown. And she hadn’t seemed keen on allowing him to explain himself either. It had been a long trip.

The three had reached their destination. Firstly, they had met up with Cassie Robinson at the local newspaper office. The introduction had been slow, only because Dean and Cassie had refused to look away from one another. It had been fairly noticeable. Sam had never seen his brother behave like that. It had been a wonder. However, he hadn’t minded. As soon as he had seen Cassie, and all that hair, he had begun imagining if Tracee could get her hair like that. That mane of curls—Tracee would look great with them. Sam had zoned out a little, thinking of running his fingers through the kinks. He had only snapped to when he heard Dean call his name. That had been an embarrassing introduction because all three of them looked as him as though he had lost it.

Even now that they were sitting in their motel room, he could feel both Dean and Tracee’s stares. The both of them must be thinking similar thoughts because their expressions were the same. They looked both thoughtful _and_ suspicious. Dean was sitting on one of the beds while Tracee had sat in the armchair across from them. Her arms were folded and her leg on top of the other. Sam tried to ignore their stares from his position on the opposite bed. He looked anywhere but at them. Hours later, he was still embarrassed and prayed it would be forgotten soon.

Tracee was watching Sam like a hawk. She shouldn’t be. She knew that, but her eyes didn’t want to listen to reason. She frowned, keeping an eye on him as Dean did the same. He must be feeling some type of way. He, too, had seen his little brother ogling his ex—probably hadn’t liked it one bit. And he _had_ ogled her. She wasn’t sure how Dean had known, but she had known that look because she had seen it clearly right before the man had torn her shirt from her body. Bloody hell, did Sam have a guilty pleasure or had he just reacted to how pretty Cassie was? And she was pretty. Long curly hair, lean body, and a few shades lighter—Cassie Robinson was definitely a pretty one. Whatever the case, it caused irritation. Even though it shouldn’t because Sam was off limits and he could ogle anyone he pleased. This was one of the tensest atmospheres she had been a part of since she met the Winchester brothers. The silence had been deafening and prolonged. She needed to break it if anything was going to get done.

Snorting lightly, Tracee turned her eyes away from the younger sibling. “So what do you guys think?” she questioned. “Is this a so called job?” She didn’t so much like the term. It’s not like they were getting paid to do the things they did. And she highly doubted they were asking for a monetary reward for their troubles. Idiots. Might as well be a hobby. Her eyes were on the older brother. Eventually, he tore his eyes away from Sam. “Dean…?”

“Don’t know yet,” he said.

“They _could_ be just accidents,” Sam spoke up. “It’s a little weird that two people died in a similar manner, but it’s not enough to look for a pattern.” Tracee found herself nodding in agreement. Once was an accident. Two was a coincidence. Three could be a conspiracy, and enough to look further into the matter. “What do you think, Tracee?” She blinked, slightly surprised that her opinion had been asked for. Dean was also looking towards her expectedly. This, if it _were_ a job, would be her very first one dealing with the supernatural. She hadn’t assumed that her opinion would be valued this early in the game.

“We don’t have enough information to go forming absolutes yet,” Tracee said, allowing her hands to rest on the arms of the chair. “Candi isn’t exactly a good witness as she did not witness anything herself.” Truthfully, she was surprised that she had even called Dean when _she_ hadn’t actually seen anything. Cassie didn’t seem like a girl that would readily believe something based on someone else’s words. Journalist or not. “The person who supposedly saw this vanishing truck is already dead, so it’s pretty much a cold trail. For now, I think we should focus on the victims and their connection to each other. They’re tangible and can give us more information. In this circumstance, we should focus on their actual deaths and possible supernatural expects much later after gathering necessary evidence.” Both brothers stared at him, clearly surprised. “What?”

“… That was actually pretty good,” Sam told her. She grinned at him. He flushed in response. She hadn’t looked at him like that since they had come to Cape Girardeau.

“You might have been interested in law, but I was interested in the actual crime part of it,” Tracee said. Right. She had told him that she had taken several courses pertaining to Criminology—both in high school and college. The investigative part of what they did must have been a huge reason why she had decided to _test the waters_. “Anyway, it’s late, so we can get started tomorrow.” She stood up and stretched. Sam tried to ignore the skin that had been revealed due to the stretch. “I call dibs on the shower.” She moved over to their piled bags.

“You better clean it,” Dean retorted, kicking off his boots. Tracee threw him an annoyed look as she made her way to the bathroom with a bundle of things in her arms. She shut the door and Sam felt himself relax. Only to tense again when he noticed his brother outright glaring at him. “We gonna have a problem, Sammy?”

“Dude, what are you talking about?” he feigned ignorance.

“I saw the way you looked at Cassie,” Dean bluntly said.

“No, that wasn’t-!” Sam cleared his throat. “I was thinking of something else… She just happened to be in my line of sight—that’s _all_. The only _problem_ you have is with her. I suggest working that out.” Dean eyed him for a moment longer before flopping back on the bed. Sam almost breathed a sigh of relief.

“We’ll be working things out when we’re ninety,” he muttered. His hands came up to grip his face. Obviously, seeing this girl had effected his brother in a way he wasn’t accustomed to. “I still can’t believe she called in the first place.” He sighed heavily. “My head hurts. I’m going to sleep.” He rolled over, shimmied out of his shirt, and then slipped under the bedspread. Sam slowly stood up, relieved that his brother didn’t interrogate him about his thoughts while his eyes had been on Cassie. That would have been an embarrassing conversation. He went over to the light switch and turned it off. There was the slight light coming from under the bathroom door, but it was enough for him to make it back over to his bed.

Sam may have dodged the bullet with Dean, but Tracee was another matter entirely. More than likely, she was still upset about the Ohio thing. The whole staring at his brother’s ex while thinking of her thing must have affected her attitude, too. He needed to explain himself. Maybe he could once she got out of the shower. So, with that thought in mind, Sam climbed into his own bed. He adjusted himself in a comfortable position, making sure there was still enough room for Tracee whenever she finished in the bathroom. Satisfied with her position, he lied on his side and waited.

Twenty minutes wasn’t a long wait, but by the time Tracee had opened the bathroom door, Sam’s eyelids were heavy. He lifted his head from the pillow so that he could see her, but the bathroom light was quickly turned off, enveloping the room in darkness. He settled back down, listening to her footsteps. She shifted around the room, first going over to their bags, and then the armchair, and then the side of his bed. It was quiet for a few moments before she ultimately joined him with her back to his front. Sam licked his lips and moved closer, wrapping both arms around her and placing his right leg in between hers. “Hey…” he began.

“Body warmers don’t talk,” she muttered. Sam sighed, disappointed but understanding her reserved response. He pulled her close, burying his nose in the crook of her neck. A soft gasp escaped her. “Samuel…” His name fell from her lips in a breathy whisper, but he heard the warning in her tone. He didn’t pull back, though. He inhaled the scent of her freshly washed body and sighed again, this time perfectly content. The proximity, the smell, the _feel_ of her was all too good to turn away from. Tracee huffed lightly, tension leaving her body. “Goodnight,” she said, clearly relenting at his touch. Sam smiled, hoping she felt it against her shoulder.

“Goodnight,” he replied.

 

0-0

 

Tracee shivered lightly, wishing she didn’t have get out of the car. She also wished she had thought to pack a thicker sweater to wear under her jacket. It was cold and early, so she wasn’t exactly in a good mood. Still, she and the Winchester brothers had climbed into the Impala at the beckoning of Cassie Robinson. Someone else had died last night. She had told them over the phone this morning that it had been the same _modus operandi_ as the other accidents. The girl had told them she had been on her way to the scene of the crash. She had wanted them to come, too. Dean had been quick to give an affirmative, so now Tracee was dreading getting out the car.

But they were here, and despite the cold, they had a job to do. Dean turned off the engine and hurried hopped out of the car. Heat no longer circulating, she supposed she had no choice but to leave the comforts of the Impala. With a slight groan, Tracee unbuckled her seatbelt. The rear door opened on her side and she stepped out. Sam had gotten out of the car, too, and had opened the door for her. Ever the gentleman. Immediately, Tracee stuffed her hands inside the pockets of her jacket. Gloves would have to be a future investment, it seemed.

She walked beside Sam, and the two of them followed an eager Dean through the aftermath of the crash. First responders were still there, as were a few police cruisers. Tracee spotted the curls of Cassie, and she assumed Dean saw them, too, because his pace increased. The three reached her. She was talking to—arguing with—an older white man about shutting down the road. They approached her from behind just as the man gave a negative type of answer.

“Did the cops check for additional denting on Jimmy’s car? To see if he was pushed?” Dean questioned. The man looked at him with knitted eyebrows, wondering out loud his identity. As Cassie answered for him, Tracee looked around. Brown eyes zeroed in on the totaled vehicle. The whole car was banged up, but the tires didn’t seem to have a lot of damage. Plus, there had been no other tracks. So it was the same thing, after all. Dents, with no other tracks. Same stretch of road. Another black man, which made three.

“Mayor, the police and town officials take their cues from you,” Cassie said, drawing Tracee’s attention to the conversation again. “If you’re indifferent about what-!”

“Indifferent…?!” the Mayor seemed highly offended.

“Would you close the road if the victims were white?” Cassie demanded to know.

“ _Whoomp_! There it is,” Tracee muttered, forming a respect for the boldness of Dean’s ex. In response, the older Winchester snorted in an attempt to hold back laughter. The Mayor glared at her. She smiled innocently back at him before Sam stepped in front of her. Scowling, she side-stepped him and stood beside Dean.

“You’re suggesting I’m _racist_ , Cassie?” the Mayor questioned. The affronted tone had yet to leave his voice. “I’m the last person you should talk to like that.”

“And why is that?”

“Why don’t you ask your mother?” he retorted before walking away in a stroppy sort of way.

After he was gone, Dean cleared his throat and sarcastically said the man seemed like a ball of sunshine. Cassie sighed heavily. Then she turned to them, asking their plans. “We have to look into this latest one quickly since it’s so fresh,” Dean said. “Why don’t you head home? We got you covered.” The girl pressed her lips together. Her eyes darted in Tracee’s direction for a brief moment. She sighed again before nodding. Then, she, too, walked away. “We gotta find out more about the victims—see if there’s a connection other than them being friends.” Tracee nodded in agreement. “I say we head back to the hotel and change so we can ask around about Jimmy.”

With that settled, the three walked back to the Impala. The car ride back to the motel had been a silent one. Once they arrived back at the room, the two brothers immediately began looking for different attire to wear. As they did, Sam explained the reasoning behind the change. If they looked the part, people were more prone to tell them more. Tracee sat at the table, cheekily telling them the cracked white boy look was indeed shady. Dean rolled his eyes at her. “I’ll stay here and look into the other two,” she told them. “Can I borrow your laptop, Samuel?” He pulled his laptop out of his bag and handed it to her. “Thanks,” she said, accepting it and setting it down on the table in front of her.

“The cord’s in my bag, too, if you need it,” Sam stated. She nodded distractedly as she powered on the laptop. The two victims weren’t the only ones she would look into. What the Mayor had said about Cassie’s mother had her thinking there was some big secret going on. Hopefully, not an affair, because that was can she did not feel comfortable opening. Whilst thinking of possible secrets, she barely paid attention to the brothers changing. Dean’s love handles couldn’t be ignored, though.

“Hey! Eyes up here!” he called her out for staring as he slipped on his shirt. Tracee merely grinned and made grabby motions for him. Dean took a noticeable step back. Sam chuckled lightly as he buttoned up his white shirt. “You tiny perverted tank.” She clutched her heart as though wounded. The login screen on the laptop finally loaded, distracting her from commenting on his remark. It was password protected. Before she could open her mouth to ask, Sam had already begun walking over. He hovered over her to type in his password.

“I’ll tell you the password later,” he said in said in a low voice. She nodded, and then Sam headed over the mirror beside his brother, grabbing the suite jacket from the bed. “So about Cassie…” Tracee rolled her eyes, along with Dean. “I’ll say this for her—she’s fearless.”

“ _Mmhmm_ ,” Dean straightened his tie, eyes focused on the mirror.

“Bet she kicked your ass a couple times, too,” Sam continued. Tracee attempted to ignore the conversation while waiting for the computer to finish loading. When Dean didn’t give a verbal response, the younger brother continued. “What’s interesting is you guys never really look at each at the same time. You look at her when she’s not looking. She checks you out when you look away.” He had the nerve to grin. Dean’s frown deepened. He was probably going to have a permanent scowl all day. “It’s just a… just an interesting observation in a… you know… observationally interesting way.”

“Samuel, stop with the teasing,” Tracee could no longer hold back. The brothers turned to her, Dean appearing grateful while Sam looked slightly contrite. Sure, he had been teasing, but he was also prying into something the older Winchester wasn’t ready to talk about. Cassie had been special to him, and obviously it hadn’t worked out. She had a sneaking suspicion that Dean hadn’t been the reason for that. “Now, go get me some info. I’ll see you guys later.” The two nodded, and then started to head out. “Samuel, hold up…!”

“Yeah…?” Sam stayed behind while Dean left the room.

Tracee waited a few seconds before she began speaking. “Listen, I’m not sure what went down between Dean and Candi, but I know—and I think you do, too—that it ended real bad,” she said. Sam pursed his lips, tucking his hands in the pockets of his pants. “So why are you doing this to him?”

“Look, I’ve never seen Dean like this. _Ever_. It’s always him teasing me about girls,” he replied. “It’s the first time _I’ve_ ever had a chance.”

“I get that, but your brother was _hurt_. You don’t have to tease in order to push him to a resolution,” Tracee muttered. “Teasing might make it worse.”

“Did… Did someone tease you about Michael?”

“… No, I never told anyone about what happened—never gave them the chance,” she admitted. “All I’m saying is that you should think about the hurt your brother’s feeling.” Sam sighed heavily, and then nodded. “I’ll see you when you get back.” He tried to smile, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes. The younger Winchester turned to go. “Be careful…!”

“You, too,” Sam replied, and then he was out the door. Tracee finally faced the laptop, eyeing the battery life before searching for the motel’s wireless network.

Three hours later, Sam came back to the room. After asking around, he and Dean had decided to split up. His brother headed to Cassie’s house… after some persuasion, of course. Low and behold, he had managed to pry what happened out of his brother without resorting to teasing. Well, not too much of it, anyway. Sam shut the door behind him. His eyes immediately looked to the table. Tracee was hunched over his laptop. One leg was propped up and her left arm resting on top of her knee. Her eyes didn’t stray from the screen. “Where’s Dean?” she asked, surprising him.

“ _Uh_ … He’s going to Cassie’s… See if he can work the mom angle—find out if there’s more to it from her,” Sam answered. She hummed lightly in response. “Got some lunch for us.” Again, she hummed, gaze focused on the screen. “Find anything interesting?” He set the bag of sandwich wraps down on the edge of the bed closest to her.

“You first.” Tracee dropped her leg, finally turning to face him. “What’d you bring me?” Her eyes were eager, and on him. Sam grinned back at her, realizing he had been right in his earlier assumption. Clearly, she was interested in the investigative part. And why wouldn’t she be? Gaining new knowledge was a thrill to her.

“Not much, actually,” Sam told her. Her lip poked out a bit in a pout. He had to stop himself from chuckling. “All three men led relatively private lives, but… the truck kept popping up.”

“The vanishing truck…?”

“Yes, but again, no one we talked to have actually seen it,” Sam explained. “They heard it from the victims before their deaths. The first victim’s cousin said that he ranted about a black truck following him just days before the crash. Jimmy’s sister said almost the exact same thing.” Tracee hummed again, thoughtful looking crossing her face. “What’s interesting is this truck—or something similar—appeared back in sixties, too. Same thing. Black men died. Not in car crashes, though.”

“In the sixties? Huh.”

“What?”

“The Mayor was a deputy back then…”

“So…?”

“So he may know something about those strings of death,” Tracee said. “When did the deaths stop?” When he shrugged, her expression became bothered. Her eyes widened like she was stopping herself from rolling her eyes. “Right then…” Her eyes drifted back to the laptop. Sam walked over to see she had several tabs open in the web browser. After a few clicks, she opened up an article. “I found that the Mayor became the Sheriff pretty quickly, with the backing of most of the black population. Guess who the campaign manager was?” Sam leaned closer, squinting at the black and white image of two men. Both young. One, a white man, wearing a Sherriff’s hat, and the other, black, standing beside him. He had seen that face before…

“Is that… Cassie’s dad?” he questioned, incredulous.

“Yup, and if you look real close, he’s wearing a wedding ring,” Tracee said, pointing. As she said, the man, Martin Robinson, had been sporting a ring. “I’m thinking something happened between Candi’s dad and the Mayor, and the other victims. Most likely, the mom, too. Why? Because they supported each other. Candi’s dad helped the Mayor become Sheriff. The Sheriff turns around and helps Jimbo become one of the first black men at the newspaper. A few years later, the Sheriff passionately defends the opening of the car dealership Candi’s dad owned with Melton.” Despite the butchering of the victim’s names, Sam found himself following along. He stayed silent, wondering what her point was. “Being friends with black men, and _vice versa_ , in that time must have been… unsightly, so something other than friendship connects them. Something big.”

“You think the Mayor is a part of this,” Sam stated.

“I think he _knows_ something that’s gonna help us,” Tracee said. “I want to talk to him after we eat lunch. No more vague bullshit about his connection to the three victims.” She frowned lightly, and then stood up. “Thanks for bringing lunch.” She walked towards the bag of wraps and began rummaging. “What are you going to eat?”

“I thought we were sharing…”

“Your mistake,” she grinned as she opened on of the wraps.

Sam shook his head as he shrugged out of his suite jacket. He loosened the tie as he watched Tracee sit and began eating. “Hey…” he began. Her dark brown eyes shifted to him. She swallowed the food in her mouth. “About… About before… I didn’t mean anything against Ohio.” She frowned at him, lowering the sandwich wrap to her lap. “I was just… blown away that Dean revealed the secret-”

“To a chick from Ohio?” Tracee cut in.

“To _anyone_ ,” Sam corrected. “I might have latched onto the location, and I’m sorry for that, but I was shocked that he told anyone about it. Growing up, Dean was the perfect son. He followed the rules and carried out dad’s order without hesitation. I was the rebel—the black sheep of the family. I argued with dad a lot and disobeyed his orders almost constantly. But I never told anyone. I left that life behind and followed the number one rule, so… Finding out that Dean, of all people, even _hinted_ at what we do, I couldn’t wrap my mind around it.” The frown left her face and was replaced with sympathy.

“This… This isn’t about Dean,” Tracee murmured. She set the sandwich down beside her before standing up. “It’s about… Jessica, isn’t it?” When he didn’t respond, her eyes turned down to the floor for a moment. “You stuck to the big rule, and never told her… Maybe if you had, she would still be here, right? If she had known, maybe she would have saw some signs and…” Still, he didn’t say anything. She was making assumptions, but they were true. Instead of lying to Jessica for all those months, he _could_ have told her. She could have survived. They could be engaged _right_ now. Sam lowered his head. “You feel guilty. You told me before, but I thought it was because you weren’t there at the time. She might be alive if you had continued to be a rebel and told her.” He gave a jerky nod. Maybe he would always feel guilty because of it. “… Come here.”

Sam lifted his gaze to her. She had moved just a bit closer. Tracee’s brown eyes showed understanding. It was a marvel how she could. This person in front of him, who had only known him for close to a week, comprehended his deeper sentiments and approached him just right. How could she… exist? For him? Sam closed the distance between them, wrapping his arms around her. He slightly bent at the knee, and she returned his embrace without hesitance. She breathed in deeply, and then sighed, warming the skin over his heart. “I’m sorry, too.” Her voice, muffled by his shirt, caused confusion.

“What? No…” Sam reared back, but only slightly. His arms were still around her. She shifted her head, eyes finding his.

“I am,” she insisted. “I didn’t… really explain myself properly. I _was_ offended about your remark. You oversimplified what happened between Dean and Candi, deeming it unimportant enough to reveal that part of your lives. As a fellow chick from Ohio, it made me think that what happened between _us_ was just as trivial, and I shouldn’t have been told either.”

“Tracee, that’s not… _You’re_ not-”

“I know that now,” she cut in, sliding her arms from his body. She stepped back and turned her head away. “I was upset because Dean was upset, too. I guess we have that type of kinship. I sensed his hurt, and I wanted to stop it because it’s not a good feeling.” Tracee licked her lips. “But it’s about Jessica for you. She takes precedence. I know that. It’s about Jessica. It’s gonna _be_ about Jessica for a while, and I accept that. And… I’ll think about that in the future for whatever comment comes out of your mouth. You’re still grieving, and you have that right.” Tracee scratched at her neck. “So, we’re cool. I’m not mad.” Before Sam could respond, Tracee turned and picked up her sandwich wrap. “Now let’s eat, and then head out to the Mayor’s place.”

“ _Uh_ … yeah, okay,” he replied, turning away from her. He removed the tie from around his neck. It was odd. Is that how she grieved for her parents? Feelings of disappointment that he couldn’t explain rose within him.

“What’d you get to drink?” Tracee asked. He could hear her rummaging again.

“Lemon tea.”

“In a _bottle_ …?!” Her voice sounded incredulous as she pulled out the plastic container. She sighed heavily. “Boy, you doing _too_ much! In the words of my father… _Bloody Americans_.” Sam let out a chuckle. “I’m serious! You’re so uncultured, it hurts!”

“They had a vending machine near the office. I could get you a soda?”

“ _Ooh_ , see if they had some sort of cherry flavor!”

 

0-0


	8. Hobby

Tracee shivered, in an almost violet manner. The wind had picked up since this morning and was now sharply whipping at her face. She absolutely hated the cold, and even doubling up on shirts hadn’t stopped it from going right through her. She pressed her lips hard together as she walked beside Sam, who seemed completely unaffected by the cold. Undeterred by the weather, the tall man didn’t even walk with his hands in his pockets. She might have glared at him a few times since leaving the motel room. They had eaten, Sam had changed and had found out the Mayor’s address, and then they had left. Now, they were heading to the nearest bus stop, which happened to be three miles away from the motel.

Crossing her arms any tighter did not bring about any more warmth, and she was certain that her boot-covered toes were frozen. She should have doubled up on socks, too. “Hey…” Tracee grimaced, eyes glaring down at the sidewalk. If he said anything about this weather, she would trip him, and then laugh when he fell. Sam cleared his throat, causing her to shift her attention to him. He was looking at her with a light smile on his face. Despite how cute that was, she would _still_ trip him. “You’re pretty good at this.” Tracee blinked in confusion. “Investigating,” Sam clarified with a slight chuckle. “Me and Dean probably wouldn’t have found what you did. And… You actually like it, too.”

“It’s interesting,” Tracee shrugged. “Finding information, connecting the dots—I loved that even as a kid. My dad got me a lot of Nancy Drew books.”

“Right, I’ve heard of them,” Sam said. “What’s surprising is you were only working in a school store. With what you can do, with the things that you like, it’s a wonder why you weren’t still in school or trying to become a detective.”

“A detective, huh?” she snickered, but on the inside, she felt flattered. It warmed her to know that he thought of her in that light. “Detectives probably _have_ to know how to shoot a gun.” Sam grinned at her, and she almost stumbled. “And if you hadn’t noticed already, I’m terrible with names. Could you imagine what the reports look like? My commanding officer would be like ‘Why is she calling the suspect _Paula Abdul_?!’ It’ll be just a bunch of crazy reports, and I’d eventually get fired.” The tall man let out a laugh.

“Well, you got our names down pretty quickly,” Sam pointed out. Tracee shrugged again. To be honest, that had been a wonder. Their names _had_ stuck. Maybe because she had finally had the names to match the faces in her dream. Besides, other people were just people she crossed paths with occasionally. The Winchester brothers were different. “So you _have_ thought about going into law? You’re too smart to just go back to a customer service type of job.” Again, warmth spread through her body at his words. “It’s something to consider… if testing the waters doesn’t work out.”

“Maybe I just need the proper influence,” Tracee remarked, giving her best smile. To her delight, Sam’s cheeks became noticeably red. He averted his gaze and seemed to focus on walking. The slight smile had been seen, though. Bloody hell…! Why was this man so cute? It was nearly annoying since he was off limits to her. “What about you? What happens after Poppa-Winchester’s found and/or the thing that killed your mom is gone? You plan on going back to school? Become a lawyer?”

“That’s… That’s the plan,” Sam replied. “I might change schools, though.” Tracee nodded in understanding. It wouldn’t be a surprise if he did. After all, there were bad memories at the location of his college. Even if he had gotten over Jessica, her death would still haunt him because of the reminder. A sudden gust of wind blew. Tracee shivered, squeezing her eyes shut. The conversation had been a welcomed distraction, but it appeared the weather wasn’t going to let her forget how much she hated the cold. She groaned out loud once the wind stopped, and then cracked her eyes open. Fortunately, the bus stop was in view. “You’re cold?” Sam had the nerve to ask. She merely glared at him, which made him laugh. He stuffed his hand into his pocket. “Hold on, I think I have something for you.” He stopped, causing Tracee to stop, too.

“Gloves?” she asked, secretly rejoicing. It meant that she didn’t have to buy them herself. Sam pulled his closed hand from his pocket and held it out to her. Eagerly, Tracee uncrossed her arms and moved her left hand, palm up, under his right, awaiting her prize. Instead of dropping a pair of gloves into her hand, Sam opened his hand, threading his fingers between hers. Her heart felt like it jumped at the contact. Instead of mere warmth, it felt like flames had ignited within her. Her eyes stared for a moment at their connected hands, and then shifted up to see the playful smile on Sam’s face.

“Better…?” he asked, squeezing her hand. Not trusting herself to use words at the moment, Tracee nodded her head. “Good.” Sam began walking again, sliding their connected hands into his pocket. Burst of heat circulated through her. It made her flush with pleasure. Tracee walked beside him, feeling all kinds of happy and distraught at the same time. It wasn’t enough that he was cute. Oh no. He just had to be smooth as fuck, too? How was this _fair_? Samuel Winchester was supposed to be off limits. He wasn’t supposed to be making that so hard.

They made it to the bus stop a few moments later. In silence, they sat down, arms pressed against one another. Tracee stared straight ahead, trying not to think too much of the physical contact. It probably didn’t mean anything for him. A guy like Sam probably held hands with his friends in cold weather, and thought nothing of it. Even normal friends held hands at times. Probably. Tracee shut her eyes, holding back a heavy sigh. She ought to stop thinking about it. In fact, she should come up with a way to take back her hand and pretend it never happened. Like she was pretending that night—and morning—never happened. All she had to do was open her mouth and say she wasn’t cold anymore. Yep.

“… Samuel…” Tracee opened her eyes and shifted her gaze to the man beside her. He turned his eyes on her, having had looked away from the direction that the bus was supposed to be coming from. Clearly, he hadn’t been thinking too much of their contact. So. It should be easy to take her hand back. _I’m not cold anymore_ , she needed to say. “My other hand is cold, too,” is what came out of her mouth. Damn it. Well, her lack of control had been the reason she had kissed him that night in the first place. So she shouldn’t expect it to help her now.

“I have an idea,” Sam told her. He pulled their hands from his pocket and turned his body more towards her. His free hand took hers and held her palm to his cheek. He did the same to their other hands. Both of her palms were against his cheeks and both of his palms were against the backs of her hand. Tracee swallowed hard, trying to force her heart back down. This was hand holding, but a lot more _intimate_. He hadn’t done this with his friends, had he? Despite her asserting his off-limit status, she felt really thrilled with his intimate gesture. And he was right, warmth spread through her body because of the contact. “This good?”

“Yeah,” Tracee replied, not attempting to hold in her smile. “Real good.” Sam smiled back at her as his thumbs caressed her pinkies. She was half-tempted to say that other parts of her anatomy were cold as well just to see what he would do. Like her ears. Or her neck. Or the part just above her cleavage where the wind was particularly persistent at causing goosebumps due to the low cut sweater she wore. Sam’s gaze dropped to said-cleavage as though he had been thinking the same thing. Then it shifted to her lips, which she might have licked in response to his stare. Though a part of her reminded herself of the off-limits thing, a major part of her saw and recognized the way his eyes darkened. That small part of her was immediately stifled even as Sam began to lean towards her.

His forehead lightly pressed against hers, and a soft sigh left him as he shut his eyes. “Real good,” he repeated. How easy it would be to shift her face a bit and erased the small distance between them. Her lips ached for his. Hell, _everything_ ached for him. So unnatural how this white boy had her all tangled up inside. No. It wasn’t that he was white. It was that he was a person. How did this person come to make her _feel_ like this in such a short amount of time? Especially after what Michael had done to her? Unnatural.

With that thought, the small part of her broke through the torrid of emotions and settled in the logical part of her brain. A barely audible sigh left Tracee’s mouth as she reared back. “Thanks,” she muttered, slipping away from him. No longer feeling his skin, the cold immediately settled in. She ignored it. “I’m not cold anymore.” She sat straight and crossed her arms, tucking her hands away so he couldn’t touch again.

“Tracee-” Sam attempted to speak, but was cut off by an obnoxious horn. Obnoxious because the siren was long. Both looked up to see the Impala parked on the other side of the street. Dean was practically hanging out the window and starting directly at them. Tracee stiffened, wondering how long the older brother had been there. Not that she was embarrassed. She was merely curious of when he arrived and why he chose that particular location. “Dean…?” Sam stood up and began walking over to the car. Tracee shifted her eyes down the road, but discovered no public transport in sight. Holding back a groan, she stood as well and followed behind the younger sibling. The two approached the driver’s side, both wearing looks of confusion. “Aren’t you supposed to be at Cassie’s?”

“I was _gonna_ ,” Dean replied with a shrug. “Then I didn’t.” Tracee could practically sense the eye roll from Sam. “Went back to the motel. You guys weren’t there. Started driving around and saw you. Where you off to, anyway?”

“The Mayor’s house,” Tracee answered. “Found something that connects him with the three victims. Also, he was a deputy around the time that big black truck first appeared, so he probably knows a thing or two about the killings back then. Want to give us a ride?”

“Hop in—nothing better to do, anyway,” Dean said, gesturing with his head to get in. Grinning, Tracee quickly opened the back down. She heard a slight huff from Sam as she settled in the backseat.

“You do have to go to Candi’s to try to get the mom to talk,” she told him, shutting the door. She noticed the change in his clothes, too. The ‘going to a funeral’ look probably wouldn’t have worked so well with the mother, anyway.

“It’s Cassie.” Tracee paid no mind to the correction. Instead, her eyes focused on Sam as he walked around the car to get in the passenger side. He opened the door and sat down beside his brother. She suddenly felt slight disappointment. She couldn’t explain why, though. She was comfortable now with the heat on blast. She shouldn’t feel anything other than content… “What’s the address?” Dean asked after Sam had shut the door.

Tracee snapped her seat belt into place as the younger sibling told the destination. Lucky Dean had found them. This might actually be more beneficial. “Hey, I just had a thought,” she announced once the car started moving. “Something tells me the Mayor’s not going to be so forthcoming with the details, so now that Dean’s coming, I’m thinking we can divide and conquer.”

“Divide and conquer…?” Sam repeated. His head turned slightly to look at her from the corner of his eye.

“Meaning, you two get information from his mouth… and I get information from his house,” Tracee explained. “A private man like that probably won’t tell you anything helpful. Probably has stuff written down in a journal or something.”

“What makes you so sure?” Dean asked.

“By the way he carries himself,” she replied with a shrug. She saw the scowl in the rearview mirror when she didn’t explain further. “The point is that you two can distract him while I search his house for anything relevant.”

“I think he’s going to notice if you’re gone for more than a few minutes,” Dean told her.

“He won’t even know I’m there,” Tracee stated. “Drop me off out of sight, and I’ll sneak in the back.

“Trace! I had no idea you were a _delinquent_!” Dean sounded scandalized. Tracee merely rolled her eyes. “Alright, Sammy will do his thing. I’ll distract by picking stuff up that looks expensive, and you do the sneaking thing.”

“ _What_ is my thing exactly?” Sam questioned.

“Puppy-eyes,” both his brother and Tracee replied in unison. He crossed his arms and slumped in his seat as the two shared a laugh.

 

0-0

 

Tracee peered in through the window. She stood outside on the patio waiting for her two distractions to ring the doorbell. The Mayor, Harold Todd, sat in a study, writing away on his desk. The man owned a large house—ranch-styled. It was secluded and even his neighbors wouldn’t be able to see because of the wooden fence surrounding the area. The house was equipped with a large backyard. Why did one man need so much space? Sure, he was married, but they didn’t have any children. In the end, perhaps it didn’t matter. Tracee tensed, seeing the Mayor lift his head. She hadn’t heard anything, but surely that had been a knock.

She watched the man stand up and leave the room. She waited a few moments before her fingers gripped the handle to the backdoor. As she suspected, it was unlocked. Cautiously, she pushed the handle down and opened the door. She quietly made her way into the study and shut the door behind her. Her eyes darted around before she stepped further into the room. It was definitely a study. The bookshelves were filled with books. The single desk and chair told her that only the Mayor would typically be in the room. He wouldn’t invite guests back here. As he hadn’t closed the sliding doors all the way, she was able to hear muffled voices, and recognized both as Dean and Sam’s. Narrowing her eyes, she walked over to the slightly ajar doors and peeked through.

It was a long hallway to the front door. She could see the brothers being invited in. So far, so good. Tracee stepped back from the doors and went over to the desk. Her eyes spied what the Mayor had been working on. Blueprints…? The man was an architect, too? She squinted at the blueprints, attempting to decipher the images. However, she had no idea what she was looking at. So with a slight huff, Tracee tore her eyes away. Using the hem of her shirt, she opened the top drawer, and began her search.

After about five minutes, she found something that made her eyes go wide. It was the Mayor’s will. The document, seemingly in his own words, named the sole beneficiary as Cassie Robinson. Tracee blinked, surprised. Everything would go to her. The house and all its items. Fifty percent of his funds would go to her, too. Weird. The interactions she had seen so far of the two didn’t exactly paint them as having a close relationship. Definitely not close enough to be giving away what he owned to her. Furrowing her brow, Tracee placed the will back where she had found it, which had been a smaller compartment underneath the desk. The back of her hand brushed against the top of the drawer and felt bump on the otherwise smooth surface. She blinked, and then upturned her hand.

It felt like a knob. Most likely where a screw would go, but instead of a screw, she felt a button. She pushed her finger because who could resist pushing a button? Certainly not her. Her curiosity was rewarded when one of the bookshelves moved. Tracee’s eyebrows rose as it slid in front of another, revealing another room entirely. She looked towards the doors, wondering if the slight hiss had been heard. After holding her breath for a few moments, she decided her two distractions were still distracting.

Tracee moved around the desk towards the hidden room. She had heard about these. Panic rooms—they had become all the rage after that movie had come out. Her father had wanted to get one for their house. She had told him to stop tripping. Then he had told her to finish her _kata_ and to stop hurting his feelings. Tracee grinned at the memory as she stepped past the bookshelves. If the Mayor was hiding something, it would probably be in the secret room. She was immediately greeted by weapons on the surrounding walls. Not guns. Swords, battleaxes, spears—just to name a few melee weapons. And those were the ones she knew. Other blades, she had no idea what they were.

“Weird…” Tracee murmured. Her fingers lightly grazed a weapon closest to her, which happened to be a steel Warhammer. He had been collecting dust for quite some time. A collection, maybe? The Mayor might just be a collector of medieval weapons. She rubbed the dust between her fingers as her eyes darted around the room. Then again, a collector wouldn’t allow items such as these remain unpolished. Why keep things like this if their condition didn’t matter?

Tracee glanced behind her before going further in. At the far end of the room was podium—a wooden one to match the room. On it was a small leather-bound book. It seemed old, and there was no title on it. Feeling a bit of excitement at the sight, she moved eagerly in the direction of the podium. She immediately opened the book, itching to discover its contents. What she read made her almost dizzy, and not because most of it was written in Latin. She flipped through page after page of neatly handwritten words until she came to the end. It was signed. Curtis Todd. It was also dated as May 11th 1934\.  

Tracee shut the book, lips parted in awe. “Whoa…” she whispered. She blinked several times as her brain shifted back to reality. She closed the book and set it back down on the podium. Most likely, what she had read had nothing to do with the case. It had been dated too far back—three decades back from the start of this mysterious black truck. More than likely, the Mayor hadn’t been a thought at the time. All the same, should she bring it to attention? Tracee scratched her neck, pondering. Then her cell phone vibrated in her pocket. Quickly, she pulled out her phone and saw the text from Sam. _Dean is running out of expensive stuff. You finished?_ No time to think about it now.

Hurriedly, she moved out of the safe room and towards the desk. Tracee found the small button again and watched as the bookshelf slid back into place. Still moving swiftly, she exited the way she had come in. Once she had left the premises, making sure to stay out of sight of any neighboring windows, Tracee pulled out her cell phone. Walking at a brisk pace towards the Impala, she sent a quick text to Dean. _Clear_ , it said. Once she reached the car, she opened the back door and got in. After shutting the door, she laid down and shut her eyes.

That had been a strange discovery. Finding that safe room had not been expected nor related to the case. And that journal… Whoa. Still, Tracee came to the conclusion that it had nothing to do with the current state of affairs. Focusing on the journal she found wouldn’t do any good for the case. But a part of her mind was still curious, and she couldn’t help but to contemplate. Several moments later, the two brothers got in the car. Tracee lifted her head, but they didn’t seem to notice her presence. Furrowing her brow, she wondered if they realized she was in the backseat. She decided to test that. With a slight grin, she waited until Dean started driving before making herself known. “What’d you get me?!” she questioned in a loud voice. Both brothers yelped as the car swerved into a different lane.

“Trace! What the hell?!” Dean shouted. He righted the car before turning his head to glare at her. She couldn’t help the laugh that erupted from her lips. “ _Haha_ , yeah, laugh it up!”

“This is why you should lock your doors, Dean!” Tracee crooned with a smile. The older sibling merely grumbled his displeasure. “So what’d you get me? Did the Mayor say anything?” Sam cleared his throat. He had been just as startled, but hadn’t been as vocal.

“Like you said, he wasn’t very forthcoming with the details,” he said. “When we brought up the articles, he just said that they were friends.”

“Funny thing is that he never mentioned _how_ they became friends,” Dean stated. “Not like they grew up together, but when I asked him about it, he only shrugged.”

“Suspicious, but not exactly uncommon,” Tracee remarked. “What’d he say about the big scary truck back in the sixties?”

“Said he didn’t work that case,” Sam stated. “Doesn’t know anything about a truck. In fact, he was adamant about it—not knowing anything. Claimed he forgot who exactly was assigned to the case since it was so long ago.” Tracee sucked at her teeth in slight annoyance. “What’d about you? Find anything? You were back there for a while.”

“I… may have gotten distracted,” she admitted.

“What?!” Dean nearly shouted.

“It was a study full of books!” Tracee retorted. “You think I _wasn’t_ going to start reading something?” The older sibling sighed heavily, and muttered something along the lines of being surrounded by nerds. “Anyway, I did find something of import. Not sure if it relates to the case, but I found his will and testament. In the event of the Mayor’s death, his home would go to Candi.”

“It’s Cassie,” Dean corrected. “And his wife wasn’t mentioned?”

“Not in that document, at least,” Tracee answered with a shrug.

“I didn’t think they had a close relationship,” Sam commented.

“They don’t,” Dean replied. “Cassie would have said something.”

“Would she have?” Tracee asked. “In the presence of strangers?” The older Winchester did not have a response for that. “I think it’s important, now more than ever, for you to talk to her. Alone.” Dean sighed. “I’m not saying she’s hiding something, but she isn’t saying everything that _needs_ to be said.” She hoped he understood her double meaning. “Go to her and find out all you can. Sam and I will try to find some info on these string of murders.”

“Fine,” he muttered.

Dean heard Tracee give a satisfied hum before she shifted to the right. He heard the click of her seatbelt buckling in place. He had caught the double meaning in her words and it left him slightly chagrined. She and Sam were pushing him to resolve things with Cassie. There wasn’t anything to resolve, though. She dumped him. They broke up. He left. End of story. There was nothing that needed to be said, and he was… fine with that. He would get the necessary information, get the case solved, and then leave. He wouldn’t see Cassie again. That was more than fine with him. The sooner he got out of this town, the sooner he could stop thinking about it. He almost wished she hadn’t called.

Despite Dean’s determination to get the heck out of dodge as soon as he could, both Sam and Tracee had him thinking of ‘what if’s.’ His brother had been pushing ever since he first learned about Cassie. Tracee initially seemed to be on his side, but had ultimately supported in favor of his _talking_ to Cassie. Thinking about that just caused his skin to crawl. Clearly, Sam and Tracee were talkers. Dean was _not_. It made him uncomfortable. Talking about feelings had never been his strength, after all. And when he had finally worked up the courage, the girl had crushed him. So what good would it do to bring that up now?

The car ride back to the motel had been relatively quiet. Tracee had chosen to look through their dad’s journal during the ride. Sam had been looking at his cell phone, which had left Dean to his own thoughts. By the time, he had put the car in park, he had decided what he was going to do. His brother got out of the car, and then moved to open the back door so that Tracee could get out, too. The two walked around the car to get to their room. Dean quickly rolled down his window. “Trace, hey! Come here!” he called out to her.

The tiny girl turned, and without hesitance, moved over to his side of the Impala. Dean noticed his brother staring back, but in the end he shrugged and went inside. “What’s up?” Tracee asked, folding her arms over her chest. He noticed her trembling, probably wanting to get somewhere warm quick. He had realized earlier on that cold weather and Tracee didn’t get along. Dean waited just a moment before he opened his mouth.

“Got a question for you,” he stated. Tracee nodded her head, waiting for him to continue. “Hypothetically, what would you do if your ex—Michael?—called you out the blue and asked you for help.” A frown quickly worked its way on her face. Dean didn’t know about the end of their relationship, but six years was a long time. Still, clearly Tracee still felt some type of way about her ex.

“Before or after I stop _laughing_?” she countered. Dean raised his brow, surprised by her hostility. “Don’t look at me like that. Mike was a _real dick_ towards the end. Why are you asking me about him?”

“Just wanted to know what you’d do,” he told her. Despite the nonchalant way he had replied, Dean also had a thought of causing physical violence towards this real dick. “You would keep your distance, wouldn’t you?”

“Yes,” Tracee stated. “But Mike and Candi aren’t the same.” Dean sighed, and turned his gaze away. She merely moved closer, leaning forward to look him in the eye. “He _cheated_ on me. There’s nothing to talk about between me and him. But you and Candi clearly have things to resolve.” He remained silent, causing Tracee to release a sigh. “Look—I’m not trying to push you, but at the same time, I don’t want this to weigh on your mind. I don’t want you to be hurt anymore.”

“Yeah, well, when did you start worrying about me?” Dean asked.

“Don’t know,” she shrugged. That surprised him. Not because she didn’t know, but because he didn’t think it was weird that she already cared enough to worry. “But I do. So handle it.” Dean rolled his eyes, but chuckled. “Don’t get so into it that you forget to get me my information, though. I’m going to be terribly disappointed if you don’t find out anything.”

“Yeah, yeah, kiddo, I’ll bring you back some goodies,” he said. Tracee’s scowl was fake, but her slight peck to his cheek held affection. Dean blinked, completely caught off guard by the action.

“Don’t call me that,” she said, tapping the spot where she had kissed him with her finger. “Be careful.”

“Yeah, you, too,” he replied, still slightly bemused. Dean watched her smile, and then turned to walk to their motel room. “Huh.” Tracee was a weird one. But… He liked her. Not to mention, she was fun to tease. He could see himself getting along with her. But for now, he had to work up enough courage to face Cassie Robinson again. Alone. With a sigh, Dean shifted gears and pulled out of the parking lot.

 

0-0

 

As expected, a break in the case had come from Mrs. Robinson. It had taken the death of the Mayor, and an attack on the house, for the older woman to finally come clean about what had happened forty years ago. Mr. Robinson had, in self-defense, killed Cyrus Dorian. His friends had helped him dispose of the body. The Mayor, a deputy at the time, had done nothing when he was assigned to investigate the disappearance. Because of that, the ghost of Cyrus had risen and had wrecked vengeance on those involved with his death, and the cover up. The big scary truck hadn’t stopped with those four, though. According to Dean, Cassie and Mrs. Robinson were targets now. However, all that had become irrelevant. This whole case had become pale in comparison to what she had stumbled upon.

Thing is, it hadn’t clicked into place until Cassie had called them in a panic about the truck being outside her home. The puzzle pieces hadn’t come together until Tracee had stood quietly off to the side as Mrs. Robinson told her tale. Now, she was leaning against the Impala, ignoring the conversation between the two brothers on her left. Basically, they were only saying the findings out loud, and what they planned to do about the body. Because apparently, it was in a swamp, along with the truck. Sounded like fun times… that she would not be a part of this go around. Thank God.

It wasn’t until Cassie made her way over to them that Tracee began paying attention again. Dean pushed himself away from the car and greeted the curly haired woman. He looked like an eager puppy. “Hey,” she replied with a smile. Tracee’s lip twitched. Sam and she had been quite convinced that the two of them had become… reacquainted yesterday night because Dean hadn’t returned to the motel. The two were making it so bloody obvious that they had _boinked_. With all the staring into each other’s eyes thing. Tracee was glad that _something_ had gotten resolved. “She’s asleep,” Cassie continued. “Now what?”

“You stay put and look after her,” Dean said. “And we’ll be back. Don’t leave the house.”

“Don’t go getting all authoritative on me,” Cassie shot back, but with playful intent. “I hate it.” Clearly, Dean tried to ignore Tracee and Sam giggling behind him, but his tense shoulders were seen. He repeated his order with a _please_ at the end. Cassie smiled and nodded her head. Dean took it as a cue to kiss her. Tracee shifted her gaze away, trying to hold back her grin. Sam looked back at her, showing an awkward smile.

“I told you,” he whispered.

“And I _agreed_ ,” she said, no longer keeping the grin from her face. She looked back at the kissing couple. They were still going at it. Sam loudly cleared his throat in an attempt to bring the two back to reality. Dean heard him and held out a ‘hold on’ finger. “Go for the _ass_ , Dean!” Tracee staged whispered. The ‘hold on’ finger immediately turned into a very inappropriate hand gesture. Laughter burst from Sam’s lips, unable to hold back anymore. Warm tingles flittered through her at the sound. Dean broke away from Cassie to glare at them, but his slight grin was seen, too.

“You coming or what?” he asked, heading to the driver side door.

“Actually, I’m going to stay here,” Tracee announced. She received confused looks from all three of them.

“Are you sure?” Sam asked.

“Yeah,” she replied with a shrug. “An added precaution in case the truck does come back.” It was quiet for a few moments before Dean nodded his head in approval. She might have become flattered by that. “Be careful,” she told them. Sam enveloped her in a hug. She hugged him back, enjoying his warmth and his scent. Lovely combination. This time, it was Dean to obnoxiously clear his throat.

“You, too,” Sam said, sliding his hand up and down her back. She shuddered internally even as he released her. “Call us if you need us.” Tracee nodded her head and stepped away. The two brothers got into the Impala, and headed out to drag a body, and a truck, out of a swamp. She was not looking forward to doing something like that in the future…

“So… should we go in?” Cassie asked, breaking Tracee out of thoughts of manipulating the brothers into doing all the messy work. “It’s going to get cold soon.” The shorter girl nodded her head, and the two began making their way towards the house at a slow pace. “You know… we’ve never gotten the chance to talk. You seem quiet.”

“I’ve learned to be quiet over the years,” Tracee stated, rather cryptically. Cassie caught the reserved tone and decided to switch topics. She asked how she had come to meet the Winchester brothers. “They came to Ashland, thinking I was in danger. I wasn’t, but circumstances… pushed us together. I’ve known them for a little over a week now.”

“A week? It’s only been a week since you’ve met them?” Cassie asked, voice tinged with incredulity. “You seem closer than that—all three of you.” Tracee shrugged. “So that means a week ago, you had a normal life, and now you’re traveling around with… the Ghostbusters.” Great—she made movie references, too. “How can you take it all in stride in such a short amount of time?”

“Funny,” Tracee said without a sliver of humor. She halted, causing the taller woman to stop as well. They had made it half way to the porch. “I was going to ask you the same thing.” Cassie’s movements completely stopped. Her body visibly stiffened. She gave her that same look she had when introductions had been made. Tracee had gotten it wrong the first time—and the times after that—but now she understood it clearly now. “I apologize in advance, and I assure you I wouldn’t do this unless I was absolutely sure.”

“Do what?”

Tracee shifted her feet just a bit and bent her knees. Giving no other warning, she reared back her arm and shot it forward, landing a solid punch to Cassie’s abdomen. The other woman flew back, taking the full force of the punch. Tracee never really threw a punch before. She had never needed to. But bloody hell did it feel good. Natural.             Instinctive. Like she had been doing it for years. Without realizing it, a grin had formed on her face as she watched Cassie, several yards away at this point, slowly get back on her feet. Her expression showed shock and awe before melting into a stone-faced predator. Still, she had the same fierce eyes as the women of her yearlong dream. “Hello, _sister_ …!” Tracee purred.

Cassie’s response was to rush forward. Tracee held her ground and waited for the strike. Their opposite knuckles collided with a deafening crack, which sounded akin to thunder. The shocks that coursed through her from the contact nearly knocked her down. Or maybe it was just the raw strength of the taller woman. Regardless, she did not fall and neither did Cassie. Tracee shot her other fist forward, but it was caught. The two women stared at one another before both jumped away, putting distance between them. Her foot slid back as she watched Cassie’s shoulders tense again. Then she shot forward, fulling intended to test her out.

They met again; this time in a barrage of punches. Cassie was good at dodging, but Tracee was better at speed. She dropped down, swinging her leg in a low kick. The taller woman fell with a groan. Tracee quickly got up, and then lifted her leg high for an axe kick. Cassie, however, lifted her two feet and launched them forward. The soles of her shoe slammed against her chest, causing the smaller woman to fly back. Cassie rolled backwards and moved into a standing position before running towards her opponent again. A spinning high kick was launched, but Tracee had recovered and grabbed her ankle.

She lifted the woman, tossing her over, and slamming her against the ground. Tracee immediately followed up with a straight punch down. Cassie narrowly dodged the strike by rolling away. She pushed her hands against the ground. On her hands and knees, her leg struck, nailing Tracee in the face. The impact sprung her head back, but she used the momentum to fall back and land on her hand, arm outstretched. She dropped her other hand for balance, and then returned the hard kick to the face as soon as Cassie stood to face her. Her other leg hooked around Cassie’s neck, bringing the taller woman down hard.

Tracee flipped into a standing position, fists clenched and raised, and waited for Cassie to stand as well. It didn’t take long for the curly-haired woman to do so. She faced her, fists just as clenched, coiled and ready to strike. The two stared each other down before coming back together. Back and forth they went, punching and blocking and dodging. To anyone else, they appeared like a blur, going too fast to keep up with the strikes. A high-speed dance that didn’t seem to have an end. But then it did. Tracee feigned a right hook punch, but shifted her arm and knocked her elbow against Cassie’s jaw. The woman faltered and did not block the following uppercut. She soared through the air, and then crashed against the ground. Her breaths came out heavy, causing Tracee to realize she, too, was breathing hard.

She hadn’t noticed before. It felt like a short amount of time had passed, and yet she was panting like she had done double the ritual. Fighting—sparring, actually—with Cassie had been exhilarating. Already, she wanted to do it again. Still panting, Tracee moved over to Cassie, who was still flat on her back, trying to catch her breath. As she stood over her, the taller woman cracked her eyes open. “Who… Who are you?” Cassie breathed out. She wasn’t exactly glaring, but her eyes were narrowed.

“I’m… I’m Tracee… a Slayer.”

“What… exactly… is a Slayer?”

“You.” Cassie expectedly looked confused. Tracee held out her hand. The other woman frowned, but took the offered hand. She was pulled to her feet. “You and me, girl—we’re Slayers.”

“Slayers of what?” Cassie questioned.

“Evil,” Tracee answered with a shrug. Cassie’s frown deepened as she crossed her arms. “I assume you have a lot more questions. Like how I came to realize you are like me—clearly not trained as much, but like me all the same. Increased strength, speed, stamina, appetite. Not to mention the dreams, the fast healing, and the innate hand-to-hand combat skills. In 2003, thousands of us acquired these skills to fight supernatural baddies. It happened to you then, didn’t it?”

“How do you know that?”

“I just found out,” Tracee stated. “An acquaintance of Dean and Sam told me. Apparently, we’re just myths to guys like them—hunters.”

“So they don’t know about you?”

“Oh, no, they do. We found out together what Slayers are and what caused our activation in 2003,” Tracee assured.

“Then… How did you find out about me? Do they know about me, too?”

“They don’t. To be honest, I just put it together right before they left.” Tracee gestured over to the porch with her head. During their little spar, they had ended up a bit far away from the house. “I’ll tell you all about it, but I’m pretty sure my ankle is jacked. I need to sit.” Cassie slowly nodded, and then the two began to make their way back to the house.

“If it’s any consolation, I think my wrist is broken,” she mentioned.

“That is a consolation,” Tracee agreed. Unable to help it, the two Slayers grinned at one another. “It’s crazy… I knew there were others like me, but to think I’d run into one so quickly…”

“I’m the first you’ve encountered?”

“Like I said, I’ve only just found about all this a week ago.” Her brown eyes looked to Cassie. “I’m assuming that I’ve your first, too?”

“Yeah,” the taller woman answered, voice tinged with grim.

The two women made it to the porch and sat down on the highest step. For a moment, neither of them spoke. Then Tracee sighed out. “Don’t worry, I didn’t catch you performing some superhuman feat—nothing so obvious,” she began. “To be honest, my reasoning was pretty much all circumstantial.”

“And yet you used your full strength to punch me?”

“Not my _full_ strength,” Tracee protested. Cassie gave her a flat look, which she awkwardly looked away from. She hadn’t used her full strength—just most of it. Tracee cleared her throat. “Anyway… It started from when we were introduced. I didn’t think about it until later, but the way you looked at me was… strange. At first I thought it was because you thought Dean and I were together, or something, but then I realized that you recognized me. Still, that wasn’t a big deal. Athens and Ashland aren’t that far apart. Maybe we passed each other once or twice, so I stopped thinking about it. Even when you kept looking at me. I figured you were just trying to think of where you’d seen me before.”

“That can’t be the only reason you came to the conclusion of me being a… a Slayer,” Cassie stated.

“Course not, but I got distracted…” Tracee muttered. Watching Sam ogling her fellow Slayer had been _very_ distracting. “I also thought it was strange how you broke up with Dean because you thought he was crazy, but then immediately called him up as soon as something crazy happened. Even if you hadn’t witnessed the crazy yourself. You, a journalist, didn’t wait until all the facts were presented before calling someone who you thought was completely bonkers. All willing to believe that a ghost had killed your father because of what some cracked-ass white boy told you five years ago.”

“That…” Cassie lowered her head, clasping her hands together in her lap.

“ _That_ doesn’t seem normal,” Tracee cut in. “Why would you suddenly be ready to believe in the supernatural? Grief is a powerful emotion, but it still doesn’t make sense to believe. So, I came to the conclusion that something major happened to you—or you witnessed something impossible—that had you more inclined to believing what Dean had told you while you two were dating. But you couldn’t just call him out of the blue to tell him after such a bad breakup—not with your stubbornness, or maybe his, so you refrained from calling. Until your father died in a mysterious way.” She crossed her arms, feeling cold. Her eyes looked away from Cassie to see that it had begun to snow a little. “Then I found the Mayor’s will, listing you as a beneficiary for his house.”

“What?” Cassie sounded surprised. “He gave me his house?!”

“ _Shyeah_ , and fifty percent of his funds. Everything in that house will belong to you. Lawyer’s probably going to call in a couple days,” Tracee replied with a shrug. “And if that’s not the bombshell of your life, let me tell you about the secret room I found with all sorts of weapons. They’re all yours now. Including a journal. Apparently, the Mayor’s father trained a young girl. Rachel O’Connor. The man kept a journal of his time with Rachel and documented training methods. The Mayor trained you using those same methods, I think.” Cassie gave her a look of disbelief. “It’s all in his journal. You’ll see it for yourself.”

“Seriously…? I can’t believe-!”

“Not really important,” Tracee waved off her protest. “Dean told me that you spent summers over at the Mayor’s house when you were a kid.”

“… Yeah… My parents would leave town and send me to him. Then he got married, and I stopped going. Dean told you that?”

“I had to know why he would put you in his will. Forming a close bond to a child would do it even if that child doesn’t deem what happened during those summers significant. I’m right, aren’t I? He taught you, didn’t he?”

“… Just some self-defense,” Cassie muttered. “With a staff… and a bit of hand-to-hand.”

“You didn’t find that odd?”

“I was bored. It was fun. I wasn’t going to question it.”

“But you never thought why?”

“No.”

“ _Hm_.”

“What does a few summers I spent with Mayor Harold have to do with this Slayer business?”

“By itself, nothing,” Tracee answered. “But with the final two pieces that I found… The Mayor was killed, and only a few hours later, that truck came looking for you. The Mayor himself was a break in the pattern. He was killed in the morning, run over, and not on the stretch of road where the others had died. Not to mention, the Mayor’s first encounter with the truck resulted in his death. In criminology, we call that _escalating_. I highly doubt this guy, ghost or not, could get back on track after that. So why would it leave after causing a bit of a scare? You became the target, even though you had nothing to do with the death, and you should have been killed like the Mayor. But you weren’t.” Finally, she turned back to Cassie to gauge her reaction. The woman looked resigned. “Secondly, when you called Dean, you were panicked and screaming. A bit over the top, but hey, it was your first encounter with the supernatural. I couldn’t blame you for hysterics. But when we got over here, you were as cool as cucumber, calmly telling us what happened. All these little things led me into thinking… _What if_ …? Then it clicked when I saw your hands.”

“My hands…?”

“I saw the inside of your hands when we first came here,” Tracee explained. “They were callused and bleeding a little. But by the time your mother finished explaining what happened, they were completely healed. So I thought… Could she be a Slayer? Guess I was right. So you want to fill in the blanks for me, Cassie?”

For several long moments, there was no response. Tracee almost believed Cassie wouldn’t explain. She frowned at the thought. All that deductive reasoning… If she didn’t get a confirmation, she was viable to become irritated. Finally, Cassie released a shuddering breath. “It happened in 2003, like you said. It woke me up. It felt like I was on fire… A couple days later, I picked up my air conditioner like it didn’t weigh anything. And then the refrigerator just to see. I could run long distances without losing my breath… and pin flies to the wall with darts.”

“ _Ooh_ , really? I’ll have to try that sometime.”

“Here I was doing impossible things… It got me thinking that the impossible things Dean had told me… might be possible after all.”

“So you, yourself, was proof enough that other supernatural things existed?” Tracee questioned. Cassie nodded her head.

“Then I saw you… I dreamt of you about three months ago. In my dream, we were dancing… like ballet dancing.” Tracee made a face. “I didn’t choose to have this dream. But when I saw you, it just made everything else seem real, too.”

“Whoa… Okay, so what _really_ happened tonight then?”

“The truck came, but… I didn’t freak out like I told you guys,” Cassie admitted. “It was driving around the house, flashing its light, and being terrifying. But I didn’t get scared. I got-” She chuckled. “I got annoyed. So I grabbed the curtain rode off the wall and went outside. It felt like I was wielding my _bō_ staff again even though I hadn’t picked the thing up in years. That truck came for me, and I slammed the rod down hard against the hood. It split in two before completely disappearing. It didn’t come back. I guess that’s where I got the calluses from.”

“You _punk’d_ a ghost? Whoa… You’re badass, Cassie.” The taller woman tried the hide the way she preened. “I wouldn’t be able to do the same.”

“Sure, sure—that’s why you’re traveling with them, right?”

“I haven’t seen a ghost yet, so who’s to say what would happen?”

“… So… We’re Slayers, then?” Cassie asked. Tracee merely nodded her head. “How’d it happen with you?”

“Fell off a bloody building. Fun times!” she replied. Cassie snorted, and then looked apologetic. “When they get back, I can show you the Slayer Handbook.”

“There’s a _handbook_?”

“Yeah, a psychic gave it to me. It’ll explain better what we are and what we do.”

“I guess… But…”

“ _Shyeah_?”

“Don’t tell Dean.” Tracee lightly scratched her neck, looking uncomfortable with the request. To be honest, she had planned on telling both brothers as soon as she had confirmed Cassie’s _origin_. “I don’t want him to know.”

“… I suppose I don’t have to tell,” she muttered. “I’m guessing it’s a secret, so it’s not my secret to tell.” Cassie appeared relieved. Another silence fell between them. Tracee pursed her lips. “So please tell me you have something to eat. All that fighting made me hungry.”

“Yeah, me, too. I have stuff to make sandwiches...?”

"Yes, please."

 

0-0

 

Tracee whimpered lightly from her place in the backseat. Her body was curled, trying not to make any more movement than necessary. From his position in the driver’s seat, Sam turned to look back at her, eyes filled with concern. “Are you okay?” Her answer came in the form of a groan. Her entire body ached. She supposed fighting another Slayer was something her body had not been okay with, so it was making it perfectly obvious that she should think things through in the future. Doing the ritual for the first time hadn’t left her feeling _this_ sore. She had been groaning all morning thanks to last night’s activities. She had wished a warning came with the Handbook. “Does your head hurt?” Sam asked.

“A little…” Tracee murmured. She had told him that Cassie and she had had a heated dance battle while the brothers had been busting ghosts, so he was none the wiser about what had really gone down. Honestly, he had just looked confused as to what a dance battle was, but realized it had been strenuous.

“We can pick up some pain relievers before we check into a motel,” he suggested. “I’ll convince Dean to let you have the bathroom for as long as you need.”

“You’re so good to me,” she remarked. Sam smiled at her. Bloody hell, she wanted to kiss him.  “Are they still talking?” As she was in a laying position, she could not see anything. Last time she had bothered to look, the couple were standing far away from the parked Impala. Once again, Dean had stayed the night with Cassie after the ghost had been vanquished. Sam had driven to the docks in order to pick his brother up, so they could leave town.

“Yeah,” Sam answered, eyes darting to the back window. “They’re heading towards us now.”

Holding back a grunt, Tracee slowly lifted into a sitting position. By the time she looked, Dean and Cassie were at the front of the car, clearly exchanging goodbyes. She couldn’t see Dean’s face, but she saw Cassie’s. The woman appeared at ease, but there was an underlying reservation. Most likely, she hadn’t told Dean about being a Slayer. Most likely, she would never tell him. Tracee watched the two kiss, brow furrowed. They would go their separate ways again. She hoped Dean had gotten closure this time around.

Not wanting to interrupt their bittersweet goodbye, Tracee waited until the couple stopped smooching. Then she moved to get out of the car. Dean turned around, looking confused by her actions. “I want to talk to Cassie for a moment,” she announced.

“Cassie?!”

“It’ll just take a moment,” Tracee stated, quickly moving forward and practically dragging the taller woman along with her. Once they were a safe distance, she turned to face Cassie. Despite the way she had been pulled along, she looked a little despondent in a resigned way. Ignoring it for a moment, Tracee opened her mouth. “Your wrist is healed, right?”

“Yeah, it’s fine,” Cassie replied, nodding her head. For good measure, she held out her hand, swiveling without making faces of pain. “Your ankle?” Tracee returned the nod with one of her own. “What did you want to talk to me about?”

“You didn’t tell him, did you?”

“No,” she said. Her arms crossed. “If I did, he might have more hope for us…”

“So there’s no hope for you?” Tracee questioned. “None at all?”

“I can’t spend my life waiting for him to come back… or not come back at all. I can’t—not even for him. Besides, I really don’t want anything to do with that life, Slayer or not.”

“And that’s your decision. I’m not trying to convince you otherwise.” Tracee took a deep breath, shoving her hands into her pocket. Despite the warmth of the sun, it was still a bit chilly out. “There’s hundreds of Slayers out there. You can choose not to be a part of this life. But Cassie, sooner or later this life is going to come for you.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean, you’ve had some type of protection, but I think it’s fading or already gone,” Tracee explained. “That truck came after you, and it didn’t have to. I think it _sensed_ you. Missouri told me there are supernatural beings that have that power, and will seek you out to get rid of you.”

“Great,” Cassie muttered with a roll of her eyes.

“You don’t have to go seeking these things out. You can have a normal life, but you have to train. You have to learn because they will come for you again. That house full of weapons—use it.” The taller woman sighed heavily. “You’re not just going to die, are you?”

“No…” Cassie replied, albeit reluctantly.

“You’re going to take care of yourself then?”

“Yes. I will.”

“Good. Call me if you have questions. If you can’t reach me, I’m sure Missouri will have some answers.” Cassie nodded her head again, giving a slight smile. Then she wrapped her arms around her. Tracee blinked, surprised by the action. Almost awkwardly, she returned the embrace. Then relaxed completely. Despite how things turned out, she supposed it was a relief to find someone like her so fast. They weren’t alone in the world. Meeting another like her was a comfort Tracee hadn’t known she needed until now. When they parted, a smile had formed on her own face. “Take care of yourself, Cassie.”

“Things may be done with me and Dean, but… I hope _we’re_ just getting started.”

“You bet, _sister_ ,” Tracee replied. Honest to God, she meant it. She didn’t have friends, growing up. Not really. Sure, she had been friendly, but a true friend. No. There had always been a distance between her classmates. Her roommate, too. On some level, she hadn’t wanted a repeat. But perhaps Cassie could become that true friend, and she’d find some closure of her own. “See you around, girl.”

“Yeah,” Cassie said with a slight nod.

Tracee turned and headed for the Impala. She could see Dean staring hard at her. A chuckle almost escaped her as she opened the back door and slid in to sit behind him. Sam turned on the car as she buckled her seatbelt. They drove away, leaving Cassie standing there waving them off. It only took a few moments for Dean to blurt out his curiosities. “ _Uh_ , you’re not going to say what that was about?” he asked.

“What?” Tracee feigned puzzlement.

“You. Her. Hugging. _Cassie_?!”

“Huh?”

“You’re really going to act like this? You’ve been calling her the wrong name since we got here, and now all of a sudden it’s Cassie?”

“Oh yeah… Homegirl challenged me to a dance battle, and I wasn’t about to say no,” Tracee explained, relaxing in her seat. “We bonded last night and now we’re besties.” Dean made a sort of choking noise, which made Tracee grin. “I do hope you don’t mind if we occasionally talk shit about you.”

“I’m taking a goddamn nap,” Dean huffed and leaned his head back. “Wake me when you see a bar, Sammy.”

 

0-0


	9. Ripple

A long breath left her mouth. With her eyes shut, she continued to breathe deeply as she had been taught. In the beginning, mediation had been an annoyance. Teenagers did not want to sit still for so long to just breathe, after all. Many times, Tracee and her father had argued about it. Many times, she had been put on punishment. As the years rolled by, however, meditation had gotten easier to do. Now, it came so naturally. Honestly, she could meditate for hours if she chose to. Occasionally, she would. Especially after a particularly irate student about the cost of books. She could sink in so easily. Still, she did not remember sitting down in the standard lotus position. _Hm_.

 “Stop sitting still. Do something.”

Eyes still shut, Tracee furrowed her brow. She recognized the voice. It hadn’t been very long, but she knew who had spoken to her. “Dean…?” Slowly, her eyes opened. She breathed in sharply. Instead of the older Winchester, she appeared to be surrounded by shadowed figures. In a dark room, their yellow eyes glowed, blocking their identities. Hastily, she stood from her meditative position, attempting to gauge the situation. The shadowed figures merely continued to stand around her in silence. It did little to calm her nerves. She hadn’t sensed them. Silent as they were, she should have, shouldn’t she? “Dean…!” Her shout did not garner a response. “Dean!!” Even when she became more frantic. Swallowing hard, she looked around the ring of shadowed figures. They weren’t doing anything. Just standing there. Clenching her teeth, Tracee focused on one figure. “What do you want?”

“Help me,” he said.

“Hurt me,” another said—sounded like a female.

“Help. Me!” another female whispered harshly.

“ _Hurt_ me,” a male pleaded, sounding somber.

“Help _me_ ,” a male whispered, sounding near tears.

Over and over again, the five voices repeated their requests. But there were six shadowed figures. Tracee flinched as one of the shadowed figures took a step towards her. The one who hadn’t spoken. “Don’t come near me,” she nearly snarled. The shadowed figure did not listen. He moved in front of her, arms wrapping around her and pulling her hard against his frame. Another gasp escaped her mouth. The glow became so intense that she had to shut her eyes. All the while, the five voices continued to speak, ranging from whispers to shouts—all blended together like a cacophony. Then it abruptly ended, enveloping the room in an eerie silence.

Tracee hesitantly opened her eyes again. The glowing pair stared back at her. The other shadowed figures had vanished. “I’ll protect you… no matter what the cost is,” he vowed. Her lips parted and her heart pounded. She recognized that voice, too. It belonged to the younger Winchester. She whispered his name like a plea. The glow faded and the shadows receded, revealing Sam. “Cherry…”

“No,” Tracee murmured. “You can’t.”

“I will,” he replied with blood smeared across his mouth. It dripped from his chin and fell to her uncovered skin. It burned, and she screamed.

 

0-0

 

With a sharp intake of breath, Tracee sat upright in bed. She blinked rapidly, attempting to adjust her eyes to the darkness of the motel room. A shuddering breath left her. It took several moments for her to compose herself and relax. The lights were turned off, but the moon’s light came through the window. She could make out Dean still sleeping in his bed… and Sam. He hadn’t been jostled awake by her abrupt movement. He still laid on his side, facing her, with his fingers curled around the front of her shirt. Tracee squeezed her eyes shut and swallowed thickly. Just a dream. Or a nightmare. But it felt different. It wasn’t the same as watching some badass girl kick monster tail. But it still felt different.

A soft sigh left her as she reached up to scratch her neck. Her throat felt dry now. Carefully, Tracee slipped her shirt from Sam’s grasp, and then slid away from the covers and the bed. He groaned lightly and shifted around a bit, but did not wake up. She sighed again, relieved that he hadn’t come to. To be honest, she did not want to have a conversation with him right now. The image of his bloody mouth was very much still a glare in her mind. Watching his sleeping face for a moment, she continued to scratch. Then her hand abruptly left her neck and she turned away from the sleeping man.

She needed something to drink. So with that thought in mind, Tracee made her way over to the kitchen area of the motel room, which was by the door. She opened the refrigerator, seeking one of her bottles. Her hand glided pass the beer in order to grab the sparkling water—strawberry flavored. Not bothering to close the refrigerator door, she opened the bottle and guzzled the contents down like it was merely water. She ignored the slight burn and continued to drink until only half remained.

Tracee sighed out, feeling refreshed already. She hadn’t noticed how hot she felt before that. She twisted the cap back on, and then placed the bottle back in the refrigerator. She cleared her throat as she shut the door. Despite how worrisome the dream had been, she shut her eyes in an attempt to bring it back from the beginning. Meditation. Dean’s voice. Shadowed figures—both men and women. Blood on Sam’s face. The burning. Tracee swallowed hard, and then opened her eyes. The thing about dreams like this—seeing the future on crack, as Dean liked to say—was it didn’t come together until it happened in reality. Her activation. Her meeting the Winchesters. The Slayer Handbook. She had had distorted dreams about them, and it wasn’t until after it happened that the dreams had made sense.

She supposed that meant she would have to wait until something happened before trying to figure out what it all meant. Tracee yawned, stretching her mouth as far as it could go. It was still so late, and she did feel exhausted. She needed to go back to sleep. Hopefully, there wouldn’t be any more seeing the future on crack. She shuffled over, hands out in front to feel the bed. She touched the edge, and then climbed on top. She crawled towards the head of the bed and quickly slid under the golden covers. Curling next to him, she sighed in content before draping an arm over his stomach and resting her head on his chest. He didn’t even flinch. Tracee shut her eyes, hoping the next hours of sleep came without dreams.

Unfortunately, her sleep was disturbed only mere hours later. The light had been cut on, but it was more of Sam’s panicked voice that roused her from slumber. He was moving about the room, gathering things, while calling both her name and Dean’s. With his face scrunched up from sleep and confusion, the older Winchester looked at her. “Why are you in my bed?” he asked. Tracee sat up completely, ignoring his question. Her gaze was focused on the younger of the two.

“What’s wrong, Samuel?” she questioned.

“We have to go,” he replied, not halting in his task of gathering their things. Tracee crawled out from under the covers and made her way over to him. Sam was currently in the kitchen, stuffing things into bags. She lightly touched his arm, causing him to still. “I… I had a dream—a vision. Someone’s in danger.”

“You were sleeping?” Dean asked, stretching, but still in bed. “Dude, it’s the middle of the night. It was just a dream.”

“No…! We have to go now—get up!”

“Do you need water?” Tracee asked. She, too, began moving around the room. Her jeans had been lying on the floor near the bathroom. She quickly slid them over her legs and shorts. It would be uncomfortable, but apparently there was a rush.

“Not… Not now,” Sam muttered.

“Where are we even going?” Dean asked with a slight groan in his voice. He ripped back the covers from his body and moved to get out of bed. He recognized the frantic way his brother was moving. Arguing about it wouldn’t result in going back to sleep, especially since Tracee seemed on board with it all.

“Michigan.”

“Michigan…?” Tracee made a disgruntled face.

“You don’t even watch football,” Dean told her because he had caught the disdain. He grabbed his jacket from a chair and slipped it on. By now, Sam had finished putting away the things they had bought for the refrigerator.

“It’s the principle of the thing,” she replied, shoving her feet into her converse high tops. “O-H-I-O for life!”

The older Winchester shook his head and headed for the door. Tracee followed behind, and all three of them left the motel room. Checking out didn’t take too long, and so it wasn’t long before the three of them were piled into the Impala and speeding down a dark road. Sam briefly described the dream as he wrestled his cell phone from his pocket. A man he did not know had died in his dream somewhere in Michigan. The only reason he knew that was because he had seen the license plate number in his dream. He hastily dialed a number and waited for the line to pick up.

Tracee rubbed at her eyes as she listened to Sam speak into his phone. His voice was strained. Clearly, he was worried about what he had dreamt. As they waited on a response to see if the license plate checked out, Dean attempted to soothe his brother’s worries by telling him it had been a normal nightmare. “Think about it, man. The last one you had was about Trace and you were wide awake,” he reminded.

“No,” Sam shook his head. “This one was different… I mean, it was the same as the others about our old house and Jessica. It felt real and… and Tracee’s was different, okay?”

In the backseat, Tracee frowned. It sounded as though Sam hadn’t told his brother all the differences between his vision of her and the visions he had of others. Again, questions of why the premonitions were so different piqued her interest. Based on a pattern she had found after hearing about it, the visions he had of her had been the outlier. This nightmare he had had must be of the norm. As they were too different, it could mean a different source altogether. She narrowed her eyes, pondering her own bizarre dream.

Tracee reached over, hands sliding into her denim bag. Normally, she had kept her foreign books inside. Now, it housed only the handbook and a flashlight. She pulled both items out and immediately opened the giant tome and turned on her flashlight. There had to be something in the contents that dealt with premonitions. All Slayers had the sight, but hopefully it would explain where the sight actually came from. If she knew that, she might be able to learn about Sam’s visions, too. Flipping through the pages, she almost didn’t hear the confirmation of their destination. The plate number checked out, and so they were heading to Saginaw, Michigan. The trip would take hours, giving her enough time to sift through the handbook.

By the time the car lurched to a stop, Tracee was about ready to rip out her own hair. If the bloody thing had a table of contents like a _normal_ book, it would be so much easier to find stuff. Dean shut off the engine, which prompted her to close the book. She would hold off on more information for now. Her brown eyes shifted outside the window. There was a crowd of people standing around. Across the street, police had arrived. A body was being wheeled out on a stretcher. The back of the man’s uniform read coroner. They were too late, it seemed.

The three exited the Impala and began working their way through the throngs of people. Whispered conversations were happening all around, but most of it was speculation. They came to a stop beside an older woman. Dean was the one to ask what had happened. The woman answered that it was suicide. Tracee remained quiet as the brothers asked their questions. Just like in Sam’s dream, the man had died in his garage, locked in his car with the engine running. Just a couple hours ago.

At the mention of the timeframe, Sam walked away, clearly upset by the news. Tracee headed after him, pulling along Dean as she went. The younger brother had stopped to lean against the car. They stood on opposite sides of him. “Sam, we got here as fast as we could,” Dean stated.

“Not fast enough,” he retorted. He breathed in deeply and shook his head. “This doesn’t make any sense, man. Why would I even have these premonitions unless there was a chance I could stop them from happening?”

“Maybe you weren’t supposed to save him,” Tracee murmured. Thumb and finger squeezing her lower lip, she narrowed her eyes. She took no notice of the brothers staring at her. “Maybe that vision was to make you aware. That means it might be a multi-layered vision.”

“What?” Dean broke her out of her musings.

“Huh?” Tracee blinked, and then shifted her gaze to the two men beside her. “Oh, _shyeah_ … On the way here, I was reading up on precognitive abilities. Multi-layered visions are what Slayers sometimes get when we dream. But other people with psychic capabilities can get them, too. Some visions, you just can’t stop, which means other visions are sure to follow.”

“Again, I say, _what_?”

“This happened about two hours ago. We were still on the way here at that time, so there’s no way we could have stopped Samuel’s dream from coming true, which is why I think it might be the first in a series,” Tracee explained. She looked at the taller man. “You’re probably going to get another vision—one that we might be able to change.”

“Hold on—how the hell do you-?”

“The Slayer Handbook, Dean,” Tracee stated in an exasperated fashion. “The Slayer dreams I get are visions bundled up into one, which is why they’re always weird and confusing. Others with the _sight_ can get the same multi-layered vision, but their visions are normally separated by time or how close they are to the subject of the visions.”

“Did the book say where these visions come from?” Sam asked.

“If it does, I haven’t come across it yet. There’s no obvious order of information, so… It’ll take time,” she replied. “If you get another vision while we investigate what happened, then we might be able to change whatever outcome you see. But this-” She gestured to the scene of a sobbing woman. “-is something you could not stop. Don’t beat yourself up over it.” Sam did not respond. He pursed his lips, looking down at the ground. Tracee slipped her hand into his pocket, finding his fingers and entwining hers with his. Only then did he nod his head in agreement. “So the next step is figuring out what killed him.”

“Maybe the guy just killed himself,” Dean suggested with a shrug of his shoulders.

“Dean!” Tracee glared at the older brother. He frowned, but did not retort. “You _heard_ what Samuel told us. _Something_ locked the guy in the car. Something turned on the engine. Something murdered him.”

“So what are we talking here? A spirit? Poltergeist?”

“I don’t know,” Sam shrugged. “There was nothing there that I could see.” He turned to Tracee. She had not let go of his hand. The contact was a comfort and had managed to calm him down. Made him think clearly. She was right, of course. They had moved as quickly as they could, but there was no beating the clock for this incident. It wasn’t like he had the dream days before it happened like with Jessica or their old house. This one had been different. A multi-layered vision, she had called it. Sam wondered if his visions of her fell into that category. He cleared his throat and squeezed her hand in his pocket. “Okay, so… What do we do now?”

“I think we should find a motel,” Tracee suggested. “You both look like shit.”

“Oh, _ouch_! _Sam_ ’s the only one that looks like shit!” Dean protested. He ignored the sarcastic ‘thanks’ from his brother. “But I agree—we’re not exactly working with a full night’s sleep.” Sam rolled his eyes at his brother’s deliberate pointed stare. “We’ll pick this up in the morning. Check out the house and talk to the family.” He pushed himself from the car and headed to the driver’s side door. Sam saw him glance down at his jacket pocket where their hands were still hidden and connected. Dean chose not to comment, but there had been a slight eyebrow raised at what he was seeing.

“Dean, you saw them. They’re devastated,” Sam mentioned, distracting his brother from the contents of his pocket. “They’re not gonna want to talk to us.”

“Yeah, you’re right,” Dean agreed. “But I think I know who they _will_ talk to.”

“Who?”

Dean only smirked.

 

0-0

 

“We’re going to Hell.”

It was the next morning, and Dean had their way into the Miller’s house in order to begin the investigation. He had presented them both with costumes… of the religious variety. Clearly, Tracee was not happy about the priests and nun outfits. She glowered at Dean as the three walked towards the front door. “ _Uh_ , do you know how long it took me to find that? I passed up several sexy and/or naughty versions, so you should be thanking me!” Dean looked back at her, but the grin on his face showed his amusement.

“I’m not saying it’s a bad idea—there’s plenty of gullible people in the world,” Tracee said as they came to a stop in front of the house. “And thank you for not purchasing a naughty nun outfit, by the way, but we’re still going to Hell for this.”

“Lighten up, Trace,” Dean advised as he rang the doorbells. “The sooner we get this over with, the sooner you can pray for forgiveness.”

“Oh, I’m gonna pray for something, alright,” she grumbled, pulling lightly on the coif.

“Yeah, this has got to be a whole new low for us,” Sam agreed with sigh.

Dean went on grinning, very much pleased with his bright idea. The door opened, causing the three to straighten. A man appeared, already appearing dubious. “Good afternoon,” Dean greeted, smiling just a bit. “I’m Father Simmons. This is Father Frehley and Sister Criss. We’re new over at St. Augustine’s. May we come in?” The man who had answered the door gave a slight nod. “Thanks.” Dean stepped over the threshold, turning his head a bit to wink at his brother and Tracee. The two barely stifled the roll of their eyes as they followed him into the house.

“We’re very sorry for your loss,” Sam told him in a polite tone. The man shut the door behind them.

“It’s in difficult times like these when the Lord’s guidance is most needed,” Dean said. Tracee almost cuffed the back of his head because of the fake way he had said it. The man apparently wasn’t buying it either because he threw his hands up.

“Look—you want to pitch your whole ‘the Lord as a plan’ thing, fine. But don’t go pitching it to me. My brother’s _dead_.”

“Roger, please!” A woman’s voice caught the attention of the four. They turned to see the same woman from last night. She had been the one sobbing. The man, Roger, grumbled something, and then left the three standing there. The woman slowly approached them, holding a casserole dish. She gave them a polite smile, but the exhaustion showed in her eyes. “I’m so sorry about my brother-in-law. He’s just so upset about Jim’s death.” She was an older woman with striking blonde hair and weary blue eyes. “Would you like some coffee?”

“That’d be great,” Dean answered for the three of them. The woman nodded, and then turned, heading for the kitchen.

“I don’t like coffee,” Tracee commented. Dean shot her an annoyed look before heading into the living room. Sighing lightly, she followed after him, feeling Sam do the same. Dean and Tracee sat down on the empty couch while Sam chose the chair. It wasn’t long before the woman came back, carrying a tray of cups and a pot of hot coffee. Tracee scowled at the sight and Dean nudged her arm, causing her to take on a lighter expression. “Thank you,” she said, sweetly as the woman began pouring.

“No, thank _you_ ,” the woman said. “It was wonderful of you to stop by.” She handed Tracee a dark blue ceramic mug. “My name is Alice.” Dean received a lime green one. “It’s a pleasure to meet you all.” Sam scalded his hand on the white one he was given. “The support of the church means so much right now.”

“Of course,” Dean replied. “After all, we are all God’s children.” Alice nodded, and then turned to put away the coffee pot. Once her back was turned, the oldest Winchester reached for the tiny sausages on the coffee table in front of him. Tracee immediately sat down her coffee and did the same. Sam scoffed at him. “What?”

“Just tone it down a little bit… _Father_ ,” he suggested with a raised brow.

“ _Shyeah_ , I’m not trying to be struck by lightning just because I’m near your sacrilegious ass,” Tracee muttered, and then popped one of the sausages in her mouth. Dean would have retorted if not for the Alice coming back. He hurriedly finished chewing the two links in his mouth and swallowed as the woman sat down beside him.

“So, Ms. Miller… Did your husband have a history of depression?” he questioned.

“Oh no, nothing like that,” Alice answered, shaking her head a bit. “I mean… We had our ups and downs—same as everyone—but we were happy.” She frowned and turned her gaze away for a moment. When she turned back, tears had gathered in her eyes. “I just don’t… understand how Jim could do something like…!” Her head reached up and wiped at her eyes.

“I’m so sorry you had to find him like that,” Sam sympathized.

“Actually,” Alice sniffled, attempting to compose herself. “Our son, Max…” She shifted, gesturing to another room with her hand. She had pointed out a young man, sitting in a chair. No one was speaking with him. He looked reticent. Tracee raised a brow. She believed she had seen him last night as well. “He was the one who found him.”

“Do you mind if maybe I go talk to him?” Sam asked.

“Oh. Oh, thank you, Father,” Alice agreed to the request, appearing relieved. Sam smiled and nodded before standing. He left the living room and to the next room. The woman sniffled again, prompting Dean to hand her a tissue from the box on the coffee table. “Thank you.” She wiped at her eyes.

“Ms. Miller, you have a lovely home,” he remarked. “How long have you lived here?”

“We moved in about five years ago,” she stated.

“ _Hm_. You know, the problem with these old houses—I bet you have all kinds of headaches,” Dean guessed.

“Like what?” Alice appeared confused.

“Well… weird leaks, electrical shortages, odd settling noises at night—that kind of thing?”

Tracee recognized his line of questioning. He intended to gather some type of forewarning as to what they were dealing with. Those were signs of a haunting, after all. However, Alice gave a negative to all of it. Apparently, nothing strange or unexplainable had happened to the family while living here. She even went as far as saying the house had been perfect. Cleary disappointed by the lack of evidence to their investigation, Dean excused himself, asking for the restroom. Alice nodded and told him where to find it. Once he was gone, she turned to Tracee. “So… how long have you been a Sister?”

“Since my parents died,” was her curt response.

“ _Oh_ …!” Her face colored in embarrassment. “You poor dear! I apologize for bringing it up.”

“Its fine, madam,” Tracee bowed her head. She had replied in that way in order to shift the conversation. People didn’t like talking about other people’s tragedies, after all. Their own, however… “I am here for you. Tell me. How are you doing…?”

“As well as anyone would, I suppose,” Alice whispered. “It’s just… the way it happened… Jim never…” The woman had begun to tear up again. Tracee waited for her to compose herself again. “You read about things like this, but… to have it happen to you… I feel like an idiot.”

“He didn’t leave behind a letter? Give away things that may have been significant to him?” Tracee pressed. The woman shook her head and pursed her lips. “I see.” It wasn’t looking like a suicide if what she learned in school had been correct. “How was he with his job?”

“He was actually excited. He told me his boss had been thinking of giving him that promotion he always wanted,” Alice stated. “And then… Then… Well, he didn’t get it in the end… Last week, he got the news…” She turned her eyes away, staring aimlessly at the wall. Tears freely flowed down her face. Tracee grimaced. _Crying_. She hated doing it. She especially hated seeing it.

“I am sorry for your loss, madam,” she said as gravely as she could. “He must have meant a great deal to you. I have no doubt he is where he truly belongs.”

“Thank you, Sister.” Alice dabbed at her eyes. “I appreciate your words.” She moved to stand. “If you’ll excuse me… I’m sure I’m a mess.” Tracee smiled politely and nodded her head. Once she was gone, brown eyes shifted to the next room. Sam was still conversing with the son. Dean was most likely upstairs scanning for supernatural signs. She wasn’t getting any bad vibes about this place, though. The handbook had stated that she was supposed to be able to sense things of a supernatural variety, but she felt nothing. At least as far as the house went. Perhaps researching would produce more results.

 

0-0

 

Research so far had turned out to be unproductive. Late into the night, none of them had found anything about the house. Dean had stopped at some point to get food, but he hadn’t started up again once everyone had eaten. He had, instead, chose to clean the guns. It was more productive than researching, apparently. Sam sighed lightly, and then rubbed the bridge of his nose. He had been staring at the same article for a little more than half an hour. Truthfully, his attention had been divided more than half an hour ago. At that time, Tracee had begun to unravel her braided hair. More often than not, he would look in her direction.

Her eyes were completely focused on the laptop, one hand working the keyboard while the other hand ran through her hair to unbraid it. In the morning, she had braided her hair into a crown so that she could fit the nun’s coif over her head. As she researched Jim Miller, she seemed to subconsciously work the braids out. It was the first time, since Ashland, that he had seen her halo of curls. He was hoping that she would sleep with them so that he could- Sam cleared his throat, gaze dropping back down to the useless news article. It was distracting, to say the least.

Besides, with the way things were, he couldn’t foresee her sleeping with him tonight either. It had been twice now that she had chosen to sleep in Dean’s bed instead of his. There wasn’t anything wrong with that. If she was comfortable enough with Dean then that was fine. Sam would just rather her be more comfortable with him. In _their_ bed. He mentally sighed. He should just talk to her. He had to make sure everything was okay between them, after all. Sam cleared his throat—a sort of preparation for speaking with her—but before he could open his mouth, Tracee released a loud sigh.

“I’m taking a break,” she announced before standing up from the desk’s chair. She stretched her body, hands reaching high, and then she headed over to the bathroom. The door was left opened, so she probably planned on using the mirror. Sam swallowed before standing from his own seat. He glanced at Dean, but his brother was too enthralled with cleaning a shotgun to notice. Since his brother was so distracted, his walk to the bathroom had been easy. He stood outside the door for a moment, just watching. Tracee, leaning over the sink, had her face nearly pressed against the mirror. She was rubbing at her right eye.

“Are you alright?” Sam asked.

“ _Shyeah_ , just an eyelash,” she told him. She hadn’t flinched at the sound of his voice. Concentrating like that, he had thought she would be caught unawares. There had been several times when she had seemingly not been paying attention to her surroundings, but had noticed either his or Dean’s approach. Maybe it had something to do with her being a Slayer. Tracee sighed and stood up straight. She looked down at her fingers. “Got it. Nearly killed me…” She turned to him, blinking only one—slightly red—eye. “What’s up? Did you…?” She trailed off, glancing at the toilet.

“No, _uh_ , I just… I just came to check in,” Sam replied.

“Check in?” Tracee repeated. “Oh, right… So far, I haven’t found anything suspicious on Derek. He’s remarkably dull, but then again, I’ve only found information pertaining to after the family moved into the house. Previous owners of the house don’t leave bad or strange reviews either.”

“Derek? You mean Jim Miller?”

“Sure,” Tracee shrugged uncaringly. “What about you?”

“About the same. There are one or two more things I can look over, but so far, I’ve got nothing,” Sam answered.

“We’ll find something,” she muttered, turning around to face the mirror. Both hands slid through her hair until her fingers came across braided strands. She began to unravel it at a much faster pace. “No one just dies like _that_ , after all. There has to be something.”

“So you don’t think my dream was just a weird coincidence?” he asked.

“Do _you_?” Tracee finished removing the last braid from her hair. She turned to face him, right brow raised.

“I don’t know… I just thought we’d find something by now,” Sam murmured. He rubbed at his temple, feeling a slight pressure. “I mean, I even looked into the history of the car.” Tracee reached for him, fingers wrapping around his wrist.

“We’ll find something,” she repeated. “We don’t get our visions for no reason. They might not make sense at the start, but eventually, they do, and we do what we must with that foresight. I waited nine years for you. Surely you can wait a few days.” Sam felt a slight smile form. Her reassurance was… needed. Truthfully, he had been feeling guilty and overwhelmed. Finding nothing suspicious or anything supernatural hadn’t helped. But Tracee had a way with comforting him in just the right way. He pulled his arm back slightly, only to link his fingers with hers. “You good?”

“… Real good,” Sam whispered, leaning down to press his forehead against hers. With his eyes shut, he could feel the heat radiating from her face. Just like at the bus stop. That had been bold of him. He had been surprised at himself, really. Bold wasn’t one of his best traits when it came to girls. Subtle and awkward had always been his default. With Tracee, he felt comfortable enough to do and say things he wouldn’t normally do and say. Sam felt a sigh leave her lips, prompting him to open his eyes. Her eyes had shut. She lightly pressed back with a smile on her face. He wanted to kiss her. Would she let him, though? Their night—and morning—seemed so far away now. It would be better to just let it go. Pretend it had never happened. Because she seemed keen on pretending it had not happened. “Sleep with me tonight,” his traitorous mouth said. Tracee immediately pulled away and opened her eyes. “I mean-”

“I know what you meant,” she stated. One brow rose. “You miss me or something?”

“… Or something,” Sam muttered. Tracee took back her hand, and just like before at the bus stop, he felt disappointed. “I did notice you’ve slept with Dean… twice.”

“I sleep with who I like,” she stated, slight frowning forming.

“Of course…! I didn’t mean it like that,” Sam assured her. Her eyes narrowed. “I’m… I just want to make sure that _I_ haven’t done anything to… keep you away.” Her expression softened and her shoulders dropped. He swallowed hard, watching her gaze drop to the floor. “I have…?”

“No,” Tracee answered. She sighed again, but it was heavy. “You haven’t. Dean… Dean just makes it better.”

“Makes _what_ better?”

“Stuff,” she replied stiffly. “Stuff that I’m not ready to share yet. Not until I get more info.”

“Tracee, I can make it better, too,” Sam said.

“Not the type of better I’m looking for.” She crossed her arms, and her body turned more towards the door. “For now, let just focus on reality, okay?” She walked by without hearing a response from him. Sam frowned, not at all liking how the conversation had gone. She was unwilling to speak with him about… stuff, but Dean was an alternative of doing that? _What_? He wanted to look into her mind for just a moment so that he could see a glimpse of her reasoning. Sam grimaced as his fingers reached up to rub the bridge of his nose. The slight pressure had gotten a bit worse. He blinked rapidly, and then shook his head. But that didn’t help at all.

Sam groaned as a sharp pain jabbed his brain and shot to his eyes. “Dean…!” he called. It felt like his head was being crushed. Both hands went to grab his pounding head in an effort to soothe himself, but it didn’t work. “Tracee…!” Had he fallen? He suddenly felt the cold tile of the bathroom against his cheek. Muffled sounds of fast approaching footsteps were heard. He hissed, feeling hands touching him, pulling him up. Unseeing of what was right in front of him, Sam slipped into a trance, oblivious to his brother’s shouting. When he snapped back to reality, he sucked in several large gulps of air. His blurry sight tried to focus on Dean and Tracee. He could barely make out their concerned faces. “It’s happening again!” Sam exclaimed. “Something’s gonna kill Roger Miller!”

 

0-0

 

They had barely made it in time. And even then, Roger Miller had been completely unconcerned with them trying to stop him from going into his security apartment. Fortunately, Tracee had picked up a small rock and had launched it at the man’s head. He had crumbled into an unconscious heap on the ground. The three had then taken the man to the hospital, checking him in as a John Doe, and telling a small white lie about how they came across him. They had given them time to look into why the man had been targeted. It had been Sam who had discovered the man’s history with the police. And then Jim Miller’s history had come to light. Both brothers had had numerous reports of public intoxication and domestic violence.

So they had gone back to the Miller’s current residence to gather a confirmation as members of the church. Both Alice and Max had not been forthcoming with details—if they hadn’t straight lied—because they had been more concerned with Roger’s disappearance. They had not divulged the man’s whereabouts. Normal, happy, family…? Dean hadn’t bought it, and so they had drove across town to a previous residence. They had learned from a neighbor that both Jim and Roger had beaten Max a lot, especially when drunk. Alice, the stepmother, had stood by not doing anything. Then Sam had gotten his third premonition. It had showed Max blatantly killing his stepmother. Using telekinesis. He hadn’t been connecting to the Millers. It had been just Max all along. Because they were alike. But why? Just because of their psychic abilities?

Now, the trio were speeding down the road on the way back to the Miller’s current residence. Hopefully, they would get there to prevent the vision from coming true. The brothers were still arguing over what to do when they arrived. Dean was in favor of killing Max because he was no different than what they normally hunted. Sam disagreed, almost vehemently. Max was a _person_. They couldn’t just kill him. Besides, he understood why Max had decided to use his powers to kill those around him. How could he not be sympathetic to him? Still, it had been a good thing they hadn’t told the remaining family where Roger was located.

Sam glanced behind him. Tracee, arms crossed, stared out the window, wearing a hard expression. She had been strangely quiet after speaking with the neighbor. She hadn’t given her opinion on what they should do. Since Dean and he seemed at an impasse, it would be up to her. More than likely, she would be the tiebreaker for a lot of things. He cleared his throat to get her attention. She hadn’t flinched. “What?” she asked, voice as hard as her expression.

“Kill or not?” Dean gave her the choices.

“I agree with both of you,” Tracee replied. “He is using supernatural abilities to kill, so the answer is obvious. But at the same time, Max is… giving an appropriate response to what he went through, and I can’t fault him for that. I don’t want to kill him.”

“So you’re in favor of talking to him?” Sam pressed.

“Sure, but if he tries to hurt any of us, he’s dead. Because at that point, it won’t be just his personal vendetta. If he’s willing to hurt anyone, then he’s a danger to everyone. If that happens, then like Dean says… We’ve got to end him.”

Sam was surprised by her unyielding decision. Up to this point, the option of killing hadn’t been placed on the table for her. Now that it had, she was considering taking a life. A human life. Honestly, that had not been what he had expected from her. A willingness to kill. Sure, her father had made her learn the skills, but she hadn’t been taught to actually _kill_. Not like him and Dean, who had both started killing things at a young age. Her logic had been undeniable, and he agreed with her reasoning. It was just… a little unsettling that she was already so comfortable with the thought of killing.

The Impala came to a stop. Dean turned off the car and removed the key from the ignition. He then reached over to the glove compartment and took out his gun. Sam scoffed lightly, but was ignored. Both Dean and Tracee hopped out of the car. He hurriedly followed after them. The three stalked towards the door. Tracee wasted no time in kicking the door open. They stumbled in, seeing Max and Alice in the kitchen, staring at them in surprise. “Fathers? Sister?” Alice hesitantly took a few steps forward. As they weren’t in their church attire, she appeared wary of their presence. She appeared shaken, though.

As they were not witnessing some heinous crime being committed, the three plastered on fake grins. “What are you doing here?” Max questioned. He was red in the face, appearing visibly upset. Sam eyed the clothes they wore, recognizing them from his vision. It appeared they had arrived just in time.

“ _Uh_ … Sorry to interrupt,” Dean apologized.

“Max, could we, _uh_ … talk to you outside for just one second?” Sam asked.

“About what?”

“It’s private,” Tracee said. “I doubt you want that woman-” She gestured to Alice, barely keeping the pleasant tone. “-to know about it. Come with us, please.” Max seemed hesitant, but in the end, he nodded his head and began to move forward. At least he had agreed. Sam watched Trace and Dean turned to the door. Dean was the one to grasp the handle and open the door. But it suddenly slammed shut. Then the blinds of the household all shut one by one. Max slowly back away from them, glaring at them. Dean immediately withdrew his gun and pointed at Max.

“You’re not priests!” he declared. The gun was forcibly removed from Dean’s hands and skittered across the floor towards Max. The man picked it up and pointed it at the oldest brother. Alice stepped forward, demanding to know what was happening. “Shut up!” He didn’t take his eyes off of the three.

“What are you doing?!” Alice did not listen.

“I said _shut up_!” Max looked towards the woman and flung his hand in her direction. She went flying back, head crashing into the corner of the island counter in the kitchen. She fell to the floor and did not move again. He turned his full attention back to the three. “Who are you?!” he yelled, clutching his head with his free hand.

“We just want to talk to you,” Sam tried to appease him by throwing up his hands in surrender. That only caused the gun to be aimed at him.

“Yeah right! That’s why you brought _this_!” Max cried out.

“Careful who you’re aiming at,” Tracee nearly hissed, causing the gun to be pointed at her. Sam attempted to block, but she stretched her right arm out, preventing him from moving in front of her. “ _Shyeah_ , we’re not a part of the church, but we needed to lie to get to you.”

“Get to me?” Max repeated, expression taking on a look of confusion. “Why?!”

“Because we know what you did to that man you call a father,” Tracee stated. “We know what you tried to do to your uncle and your stepmother.”

“What…?” He shook his head, appearing even more confused.

“I saw you kill your dad before it happened,” Sam explained. “I saw what you were planning to do to your uncle before it happened, and we stopped it. Your uncle never made it into his apartment, where you were lying in wait, because of us.”

“You’re crazy…!”

“You literally move things with your mind, but you think seeing the future is crazy?” Tracee questioned.

“Come on, Max! You weren’t just going to launch a knife into her eye?” Sam pointed at his right eye. “Or slam a window down on your uncle’s neck? I saw what you planned to do. I got these vision of you because, for some reason, we’re connected. I think I’m here to help you.”

“No one can help _me_!” Max whispered, sounding desperate and close to tears.

Tracee sucked in a sharp breath, drawing the attention back to her. She wore such a look of surprise, Sam had to wonder what had caused a reaction. “Max…” she murmured. “It’s you…” Tracee stepped forward.

“Stay back!” Max shouted.

“Hey! No, no! Hey, hey!” Sam directed Max’s attention back to him. The thought of Tracee catching a bullet terrified him. His insides vibrated in protest. “Calm down! We can talk about this—just me and you. We can send the others out of here!”

“ _Fuck_ that!” Dean and Tracee objected in near sync.

But it was Tracee who moved. She rushed forward, grabbing Max’s wrist and shoving his outstretched arm upward. Max cried out in surprise, but his cry was cut short because she had rammed her forehead into his. He was unceremoniously knocked unconscious by the impact. He fell limply to the floor with Tracee still holding his wrist. She lowered herself next to his fallen body, pulling the gun from his hand. Sam stared, wide eyed as she handed the gun back to Dean. His brother was staring at her in the same way. Her speed. Her bravery. Her snap quick decision, and follow up actions. This was the skill of a Slayer. Maybe the willingness to kill was also a part of that.

Tracee sharply turned to face him, glare on her face. “That was a _stupid_ suggestion,” she told him, slight British accent in her voice. “Separation is _not_ an option for dangerous situations. So let’s not make that suggestion to an opposing force in the future, okay?”

“I agree with Trace, man,” Dean put in. It was their combined protective looks that had Sam nodding his head in agreement. “So what do we do with him? He tried to hurt us-”

“No,” Tracee cut in. “Circumstances has changed.” She turned back to the unconscious Max, frowning. “We’re going to help him. But not without taking precaution.” Her fingers gripped his jacket and shirt about to haul him up. “First we tie him up, cover his eyes, and then take him some place that’s not familiar.” In her effort to lift him, his jacket and shirt shifted. “Then we can talk-” She stopped speaking, grip on Max’s clothes wavering.

“Trace…? What is it?” Dean moved forward, hovering over her shoulder. Tracee released shuddering breaths, and then pushed up Max’s shirt. His pale skin had a giant ugly bruise. Almost his entire right side was covered. Not to mention the scratches. Sam swallowed hard, coming to the same conclusion Tracee must have come to. “He was still getting beat…”

Tracee abruptly stood up. She marched over to the kitchen, and none too gently pulled Alice up into a standing position. The older woman groaned in obvious pain from her head injury, but Tracee paid no mind. She dragged Alice over and pushed her down next to Max’s body. The woman turned away from the battered form. “Look at him!” Tracee nearly growled. “Look at what you did!”

“No…!” Alice shook her head. “I didn’t do this! I didn’t do anything!”

“Liar! You _allowed_ this to happen! You might as well have took the swings yourself! You _pathetic_ excuse for a parent!” Tracee yanked on the woman’s hair, forcing her to look at Max. She ignored the hisses of pain from her. “Marrying that man made you this boy’s protector and you _failed_. You took part in his beatings and made him think he had to _kill_ you all!”

“I’m… I’m sorry!” Alice wailed, tearing stream out of her eyes.

“How _bloody_ convenient that’s how you feel now that it’s come _this_!” Tracee barked mockingly. With a sharp tug, she made Alice look her straight in the eye. “If you know what’s good for you, you will not tell anyone what happened here today.” The older woman blubbered incoherently. “If I catch wind of you or your brother-in-law trying to find Max, _I’m_ gonna find you and I’m gonna _slay_ the both of you. This fucked up family doesn’t deserve Max, and I refuse to leave him here with _you_.” She pushed the blonde woman away and turned to Max.

Sam, admittedly, found it hard to try to comfort the sobbing woman. The moment he had seen the bruises, the concern for Alice had dwindled and the urge to help Max had skyrocketed. He turned his gaze back to Tracee to see that she had stood with Max cradled in her arms. With his short stature, the image didn’t seem that weird. A tiny woman like Tracee picking up a grown man wasn’t weird at all in fact. “Come on,” Sam muttered, guiding her to the door. “Dean…?” His brother blinked, and then shook his head.

“I’m coming,” he said, following them to the door. He moved in front of Tracee and opened the door for her. “Where are we taking him?”

“Just to the car for now,” Tracee replied, bypassing the threshold. “After he wakes up, he will be the one to decide what happens after.” They followed her, several paces behind. Dean nudged his arm a little to get his attention. His brother’s face was full of questions. He didn’t have any answers, so he shrugged. Hours of talking to one another had never centered on her no tolerance for abuse. There was no way her father, or dad, had abused her, right? No way. But this was obviously a touchy subject for her.

Sam jogged ahead of her to open the back door. Tracee carefully placed Max in the back seat, and then slid in with him. The brothers took their places in the Impala. Dean opened the glove compartment, rummaged around a little, and pulled out a dark red headscarf. He turned in his seat to give it to Tracee. She took it and began folding. Then she wrapped it around Max’s head so that it covered his eyes. As she did so, she kept her eyes on the unconscious man. Sam couldn’t quite understand her expression. Sympathy? Or was it empathy? Longing, maybe? Once she finished, she sighed and relaxed.

“Trace…” Dean began. “What _was_ that? What’s going on?”

Her reaction had been out of character for her. When it came to other people, she tended to be neutral. Hell, indifferent, even. Sam knew that after only about five minutes of talking to her the first time. It tied in with her not bothering to remember names. So it was strange how much she cared for Max. She clearly wanted to take him away from this place. Tracee shut her eyes for a moment. When she opened them, her gaze was still on Max. “I didn’t have friends when I was younger. There’s no special reason for it—I just never got close enough to someone to consider them a friend,” Tracee began. “Then I met Monai. Like me, she was a ward of state—just a year older. After about two months, I considered her friend. In the next month, she was adopted. We’d promise to write each other every day. After two weeks, she stopped writing. Another month passed, without contact, and then I finally saw her face again.” She shut her eyes and chewed at her lower lip. “She had returned battered and… broken. Her foster parents had beaten her and children’s services found out about it. It was too late, though. She wasn’t herself anymore. She wouldn’t talk to me anymore. We weren’t friends by the time my father came for me.”

“Tracee, that’s… I’m sorry,” Sam was truly at a loss for words.

“It took a while for me to trust my father because of what happened to Monai,” Tracee continued, opening her eyes. “Monai’s the reason… I can’t let abuse go. It didn’t happen to me, but it definitely shaped me. I couldn’t save her, but I can save Max.” She looked towards Dean. “Can I save him?”

“Well, stop sitting still,” Dean replied, shrugging.

She smiled gratefully, and then shifted her attention to Max. It took a moment, but she was able to rouse him from his unconscious state. She must not have hit him as hard as she had his uncle. After the momentary freak out of wondering where he was and why he was blindfolded, Tracee explained that they wanted to talk, and that he was only blindfolded just in case. “We’re not going to hurt you, but I have to make sure you don’t hurt us,” she told him. Max became silent after her explanation. “We want to help you. _Let_ us.”

“If you want to help me, tell me where my uncle is. Help me kill him,” he replied.

“We can’t let you do that, Max,” Sam said.

“Why? It’ll be over. It’ll finally be over.”

“So you’re just going to let them keep controlling your entire life?” Tracee questioned.

“What choice do I have?”

“How about leaving?” Dean chimed in.

“Because it’s not about getting away…” Max shook his head. “It’s about not being _afraid_. What they did to me-” He sniffled harshly. “-I still have nightmares. I’m still scared all the time like… like I just _waiting_ for the next beating. I’m just tired of being scared! Let me kill them! If I do that, it’ll be over!” He moved, but Tracee had a firm grip on him. “Do you have any idea how it feels to have your _father_ look at you in hatred? Blame you for everything that went wrong? His job? His life? Mom’s death? Everything!”

The Winchester brothers sat and listened to Max as he recalled the way his dad would get drunk and ramble about how his mom died. They both stared in horror, realizing it had been completely identical to what had happened to _their_ mom. Sam could not believe it. What did it mean? He had thought Max and he had something in common, but that had been too specific. Whatever had killed their mom had done it to other families. “Max, what your dad said-” Before he could continue, Tracee shushed him. Without looking away from the man beside her, she had _shushed_ him. Sam glanced at his brother to see that he looked just as snubbed as he felt.

“He didn’t love you. He hurt you, and your actions were justified,” Tracee said. “I’m not going to fault you for ending that type of pain.” She placed a hand on his shoulder. He flinched, almost violently, and turned his head in her direction. “But further killing is not going to erase the _emotional_ pain they put you through. They put you in a cage, and killing them while you’re still trapped is not going to set you free. You’ve got to get out of this cage. You’ve got to stop being afraid. And the first step is to stop letting those undeserving people _manipulate_ you. You can change for the better, I can help you break free, but it starts with you. Help me help you.”

“Why… Why are you-?”

“Because you are _special_ , Max, and you deserve _so_ much more than to let those bastards destroy you.” Max let out a shaky breath, but did not respond verbally. Tracee lifted her hand from his shoulder, and then removed the headscarf from his head. Sam and Dean both tensed, unprepared for her hasty decision to give him back his sight. However, Max stared at her, ignoring the two of them. He made no move to lift his hands. “So you have two options. We can go in there, and you can attempt to take her life like a coward, forcing me to take yours. Or we can go in there, pack your bags, and we can leave this horrible state together. Maybe one day you come back and you stand up to them for what they did to you… and be strong enough not to kill. Choose.”

If the atmosphere hadn’t already been thick with tension, it certainly was now. Max eyes were red from tears, his lips trembled, and his nostrils flared. He sucked in a sharp breath. “Help me,” he whispered. Then, as if it had drained him, he fell forward, forehead pressed against Tracee’s shoulder. She immediately wrapped both arms around him. “But don’t make me… Don’t make me go back in there.”

“Okay, that’s fine,” Tracee replied. She shifted her gaze from him to Sam. “Samuel, could you…?”

“Yeah,” he answered, understanding, and already moving to get of the car. Apparently, they were really planning on taking Max away. He would have to return to the house and pack Max’s things.

“Dean, could you call Madam Missouri and explain the situation?”

“Sure, but why?”

“Because I’m hoping that’s where we’re headed.”

 

0-0

 

Fortunately, Missouri had understood and had been willing to house Max Miller. It had been a somber fifteen hour drive from Michigan. Max had slept for most of it. Not surprising since he had been emotionally and mentally exhausted. His powers may have been further along, but using them so much had left him with little stamina. Tracee watched the man speaking with Missouri from her place on the sidewalk. She couldn’t hear what they were saying, but judging from the nodding from Max, she assumed that Missouri was laying down some ground rules. He would be living with her, but he would have to help around the house and get a job, but it would be much better than the situation he had been pulled from.

Honestly, she considered bringing Max along with her and the Winchesters. Of course, she had decided against it. The man had already been through a lot. He didn’t need to know about the supernatural creatures—at least, not yet. Tracee stood straighter as Max turned in her direction. He slowly began making his way to her. With his hands shoved into his jacket pockets, his gaze drifted to the ground. “Are you settled in?” she questioned. He gave a jerky nod. “I’m sorry I can’t stay with you. I rather would, but…”

“I get it,” Max said.

“I know you do,” Tracee said. “The three of us can’t possibly teach you about your powers. But the madam can. And when you’re ready to face that… family of yours, I’ll be there for you if you want.”

“… Why are you doing this for me? I’m a stranger…"

“Among other things… you remind me of someone I used to know, so you’re not that much of a stranger to me,” she replied truthfully. Especially since she had dreamt of him, too. Max bit his lower lip and hesitantly lifted his gaze. “But I meant what I said before. I recognize how special you are. You didn’t deserve to me left there.”

“No one has ever done anything for me. How am I special?” he asked.

“Tell you what-” Trace started, letting a slight smile cross her face. “-the second you think you’re ready to return to Michigan, I’ll let you know.”

“… Be-Because you’ll be with me?” Max questioned.

“If that’s what you want.”

“You’re not… You’re not normal.”

“As if that’s a _bad_ thing,” Trace let a grin show, and then wrapped her arms around him. It took a moment, but Max awkwardly returned the hug. Had he never been hugged in his entire life? Bloody hell, she had been lucky. Strange, though… She hadn’t thought twice about it. Hugging a person she barely knew. Maybe she was so used to hugging because of her traveling companions. Tracee slowly let her hands fall. “Call me whenever you feel up to it, okay?” Max nodded his head, and then turned to go. He moved pass Missouri and into the house without a backwards glance. More than likely, she wouldn’t be getting a call anytime soon, but… at least he could get better. Missouri approached her, drawing Tracee’s attention to the older psychic. “Thanks for doing this, madam.”

“As if I would turn down a request from a Slayer,” Missouri chortled. “Besides, that boy clearly needs a lot of help.” She lowered her head for a moment. “What he went through… He won’t be alright for a long time.”

“But he will become alright here?”

“As long as he wants to.”

“Right. Of course.” Tracee nervously scratched at her neck. “But that’s not the only reason I brought him here. I had a dream about him… and Samuel.” She glanced behind her. The brothers were still in the Impala, talking about something. “I think they are the same. Whatever killed their mothers did the same thing to, at least, four other people.”

“Why do you think they are the same?”

“My dream showed them to me as shadowed figures with the same yellow eyes. Then I learned about Max’s mother. It can’t be a coincidence.”

“Then you needed something from me?”

“If it’s not too much to ask… Could you eventually tell Max? When he’s capable of that bombshell, I mean?” She swallowed hard. “I think… that whatever killed his mother—it’s going to come back. I think it might come for all of them. He needs to be prepared if that day comes. I’d do it myself, but-”

“I’ll try my best, Slayer,” Missouri agreed without hesitation. Tracee nodded, holding back a sigh of relief. “You’ll keep in touch, won’t you?”

“I plan to,” she said. Turning, she waved goodbye to the elderly woman. “Take care!” Tracee jobbed across the street to the parked Impala. She opened the door and slid in. Once she had settled in the middle, Dean was the one to break the silence.

“You’re not planning on making this a habit, are you, Trace?” he asked.

“No, I don’t plan to,” she answered with a slight shrug of her shoulders. “I…” Tracee wringing her hands in her lap. “I owe you guys an explanation. The truth is… I had a dream about Max. He begged for my help.”

“When did you have that dream?” Sam inquired.

“The same night you had your first vision about his bloody father,” she replied.

“What?! Why didn’t you tell us?!” Dean demanded to know.

“Because I didn’t know what it meant at the time,” Tracee retorted. “Should I tell you about _all_ my bizarre dreams? Because I had a very interesting one with you in a _dress_!” Dean looked both contrite and annoyed by the admission. Well, it hadn’t been true. Sam had been the one in the dress and the dream itself had been less interesting and more… erotic. And she really didn’t need to think about it right now or else Dean would discover her ‘Resting bitch face’ was actually her ‘thinking about aggressive sex’ face. Tracee cleared her throat and looked anywhere but at Sam. “Anyway, Max wasn’t the only one in the dream. Sam was there, too. Along with four other people. Are you picking up what I’m throwing down?”

“So Max and I _are_ connected… with more people,” Sam exclaimed. He had the same eager look on his face when Max had told them about how his real mother had died. Tracee was glad she had stopped him from going on a tangent in front of Max. It wouldn’t have helped the situation at all. “This thing that killed our moms… It’s going around doing the same thing to others?”

“We don’t know that,” Dean protested.

“We _do_!” Sam rebutted. “Me and Max are the same! Not just our powers, but what happened to our moms! To Jessica! I could… I could turn into Max and-”

“Calm down,” Tracee interjected. “It doesn’t change anything. You two are still going to hunt this thing and kill it, right?” Dean was the one to nod his head in response. “Until we find out more information, I think we should just focus on _that_.” She shifted her eyes to Sam. Turn into Max? Was he for _real_? She definitely wasn’t going to tell him about the blood in her dream. He would freak out. “You and Max are not the same. Max didn’t have a support system— _you do_.”

“Yeah, Sammy, as long as I’m around, nothing bad’s gonna happen to you,” Dean agreed. Tracee nodded her head in approval. The older brother had a calming strength. It was the reason, she had sought him out after her dream. It must have been the reason she had called for him in the dream in fact. She recognized and very much approved of it. “Or you,” he continued looking her way. Tracee blinked, a bit taken about. “Nothing bad will happen as long as you’ve both got me.” She pursed her lips to prevent a smile, but she felt it spread across her face. “Now then. I know what to do about your premonitions.”

“What to do?” Tracee repeated.

“Yeah, I know where we have to go,” Dean continued, grinning at her.

“Where’s that?” Sam asked, sounding genuinely curious. Tracee was curious, too, but her curiosity was laced with suspicion. Dean may have a calming effect that she gladly embraced, but he could not know more than a few things about premonitions.

“Vegas, baby, _Vegas_!” he answered.

“Oh my God,” Tracee said, rolling her eyes. She sat back in her seat as Dean laughed. Sam scoffed and crossed his arms, clearly disappointed with the less than serious response. “That’s not how it works.”

“Won’t know unless we try!” he crooned.

“Can we just go now?” Sam muttered.

 

0-0


	10. Hunted

Tracee had started sleeping beside Sam again. Ever since that whole thing with Max Miller, she had chosen to crawl into Dean’s bed. Then Sam had almost gotten kidnapped. And not by anything supernatural. No, they had only been human. That hadn’t stopped Tracee from chasing after them. She had seen them bash Sam over the head and haul him into their vehicle. If she had stepped out of that bar a second later, she would have missed the altercation completely. Fortunately, she had seen, and had ran after the moving vehicle. She had caught up to it, jumped on the hood, and had smashed the windshield in. It had caused the vehicle to crash, and the driver and passenger to hit their heads. The local police had been called, and a cold case had been solved. Turns out, the two, as well as their family members, had been kidnapping people for decades and killing them. A man, who had already been taken, had been saved.

After the incident, Tracee had been sticking to Sam like glue. Hell, if the beds were big enough, Dean would be sleeping with them, too. That… could have spiral into a dangerous situation if it had not been for Tracee. Everything had turned out good, but just the thought of his brother disappearing… His insides still clenched painfully at the thought. All the supernatural crap they dealt with, and _humans_ had been the ones to get the drop on him. Sure, he had teased Sam mercilessly for it for days afterwards, but it had scared him. He hadn’t been there. And that _scared the hell_ out of him.

Anyway, after the incident, they had gotten the hell out of dodge before police could begin to wonder how Tracee had managed to catch up with a moving vehicle in the first place. And ever since, both she and Sam had seemed closer. Not that he didn’t mind the tiny tank sleeping in his bed, but sometimes, she squeezed. He would wake up with aching ribs sometimes. Dean didn’t know _how_ Sam could handle that. But he did, and seemed happy about it. So good for him.

Now, they were in Chicago, working a case about two victims being mutilated with no evidence of break-ins. Dean and Sam were at a bar—the last victim’s place of work—while Tracee had stayed at the inn to further research the two. Dean walked over to his brother, who was sitting at a table with their dad’s journal open. He seemed to be ignoring everything around him in favor of reading. Dean almost rolled his eyes at the sight. “I talked to the bartender,” he announced as he sat down besides Sam.

“Did you get anything—besides her number, I mean?” Sam asked, only glancing up from the newspaper article in his hands.

“Dude, I’m a professional!” Dean began. “I’m offended that you would even _suggest_ -!” His brother stared straight at him and raised a dubious brow. “Alright,” he continued, holding up a napkin with the hot bartender’s number on it. He grinned, but Sam didn’t seem all that impressed. Of course he didn’t. As someone who didn’t often score chicks’ numbers, Sammy wouldn’t appreciate Dean’s awesome skills.

“You mind doing a little thinking with your upstairs brain, Dean?” he asked, rolling his eyes. Sam was doing that a lot lately. He still gave his Bitchface when he was really mad, because he wouldn’t be his brother without it, but his annoyance came with an eye roll now.

“There’s nothing to find out here,” Dean replied. “Everything was normal. Meredith didn’t do or say anything weird before she died. What about the symbol? You find anything?”

“Nope. Nothing,” Sam answered. He sighed heavily. “It wasn’t in dad’s journal or in any of the usual books. Tracee’s looking through her handbook, but it doesn’t have pictures, so…”

“What kind of manual doesn’t have pictures?”  Dean questioned, looking confused. Sam only shrugged his shoulders. “She find anything connecting the two victims yet?”

“She hasn’t sent a text yet, so I’m guessing no.”

“So to recap, the only successful intel we’ve scored is the bartender’s phone number.”

Sam rolled his eyes again. Then he tilted his head to the right. His eyebrows furrowed together, and then he stood up and moved away. Okay… Sam ignored him sometimes, but not during a middle of a conversation. That was just weird. Dean turned his head, calling out to his brother, but his calls went unnoticed. Sighing, he gathered up the articles and stuffed them in between the pages of dad’s journal. Then he shoved the journal under his armpit as he stood up. Dean approached his brother, catching him talking to a pretty blonde chick with an overeager smile on her face. _Good_ for him! With any luck, Sam just might get laid. And what kind of brother would he be if he didn’t help him out?

Dean cleared his throat, and then waited to be introduced. He was not. Sam still ignored him and continued to converse with the girl, asking about where she was originally from. Apparently, they had already knew each other from somewhere. College, maybe? Still, he wasn’t used to being ignored. Okay, she was pretty with her little pixie haircut, but dude…! Sam could have stopped awkwardly flirting for a second to introduce him to the girl that might get in his pants. It was common courtesy. Dean cleared his throat again, louder than before. The girl looked his way, plastering on a fake smile. “Dude, _cover_ your mouth,” she said. He reared his head back, a little offended by her words.

“I’m sorry, Meg,” Sam apologized. Dean almost scoffed. He’s the one that needed the apology. He didn’t think his brother liked rude girls. “This is my brother—Dean.” An enlightened looked crossed the girl’s face, equipped with a jaw drop. _Ha_ —so she had heard of him, did she? Dean grinned at her, waiting for an apology. It never came.

“I’ve heard of you,” she said. “It’s nice that you treat your brother like luggage.” He looked at Sam, whose face had turned a bit red. Dean couldn’t even sputtered a response to her rude words and nice tone. What the hell…? “Why don’t you let him do what he wants? Stop dragging him over God’s green earth!” Still, he could not gather enough words for a reply. What the hell did Sam tell her? Dean looked to his brother again, but he only tried to placate _Meg_.

“Okay. Awkward,” he muttered. A fake chuckle slipped out of his mouth. “I’m gonna go get a drink now.” The girl and his brother did not see the frown as he turned his back on them. The _hell_ was that about? Dean stood at the bar, but did not order a drink. That was… not what he expected some chick to say about him. Obviously, Sam had run his mouth, but was that what he really thought? Had he said the same shit to Tracee? His frown deepened as he pulled his cell phone from his pocket. He hurriedly pushed buttons, and then sent a text to the tiny tank in question. _Do I treat Sam like luggage?_ The message was straight to the point. He hoped she wouldn’t ask for context. Her response came a few moments later.

_What the hell does that even mean? Of course not._

“Good ol’ Trace. Knew I could count on you,” Dean murmured. He snapped his phone shut just as Sam caught his attention. He was ready to leave. Holding in a sigh, he followed Sam towards the exit. Only after they had made it out the door did Dean voice his thoughts. “Who the hell was she?” He hoped his brother understood the tone of his voice.

“I don’t really know,” Sam replied distractedly. Dean frowned again. “I’ve only met her once.” Scowling a little, Dean tucked the journal on the inside of his jacket. “I don’t know, man, it’s weird.”

“What was she saying? I treat you like _luggage_?” he questioned. “Were you bitching to some chick about me?” Finally, Sam chose to apologize. Apparently, he had ranted to this girl after that had had that big fight and had gone their separate ways in Indiana. It made sense, but it still irritated him. “Is there any truth, though? You think I’m forcing you to stay against your will?”

“No! Of course not!” Sam protested. “Now, would you just listen to me?” They stopped, shortly before reaching the car. Dean had to reign this in before this argument escalated. As Sam tried to explain that something was off about this girl, he only shrugged his worries off with jokes. He should probably stop doing that, but Sam took things too serious sometimes. He needed to lighten up. A girl was just a girl—it didn’t matter if they had met randomly two times now. His brother sighed and rolled his eyes. “Could you just look her up for me? See if there really is a Meg Masters from Andover, Massachusetts. And look a little harder for that symbol.”

“What are you going to do?”

“I’m going to watch Meg,” Sam answered. Dean could only laugh. His brother did not appreciate it. His Bitchface was in full effect. “I’m just gonna see what’s what. Better safe than sorry!”

“Alright, you little pervert,” Dean remarked, turning to head to the inn. It was in walking distance, so Sam could use the car if he wanted.

“Dude, don’t…!” Sam started, causing Dean to turn back around to face him. His brother looked away for a moment. “Don’t tell Tracee. Just say I’m following a lead—that’s _it_.”

“Why?”

“Because if _you_ tell her without instruction, you’re gonna say some unnecessary stuff!”

“Like what?” Dean asked, confused. Sam only gave him a hard look. “Fine, fine, I won’t tell Trace where you want to put your finger on Meg.”

“Dean…!”

“I’m going, I’m going!”

Laughing to himself, Dean headed for the inn. By the time he made it inside, it had started to rain. The rain had been a big reason why Tracee had chosen not to go with them to the bar. He believed her exact words had been: ‘Do you know what rain does to my _hair_?! Go by yourselves!’ Chuckling, Dean took his key from his pocket so that he could open the door. Inside, he found Tracee laying on her and Sam’s bed, reading her Slayer Handbook. More often than not, her nose would be stuffed in that giant book. He shut the door behind him, and she looked up. “Hey,” she greeted. “What was the text message about?”

“ _Nah_ , don’t worry about it,” Dean told her. He shrugged off his jacket and tossed it on his bed. “Where’s Sam’s laptop?” Tracee narrowed her eyes, but shrugged and pointed to the dresser. The laptop was there underneath vials of nail polish. Dean looked back to Tracee to see that her nails had been painted blue. Noticing his gaze, she merely stuck her tongue out at him. “Did you find anything?” he asked as he went over to the dresser to retrieve the laptop. He knocked the nail polish away, causing a ‘Hey!’ to come from the tiny tank.

Grumbling, Tracee walked over, grabbing her nail polish before they fell to the floor. She wore what she usually wore to bed, minus the headscarf, so he could see her toes. She had painted her toenails red. “I did, in fact, find something,” she replied as she moved over to her large red bag in the corner of the room. She stashed her nail polish away before turning to him. By then, he had already set up the laptop on the table and sat comfortably in the chair. “I wasn’t finding anything, so I started looking on Myspace, and-”

“What’s Myspace?”

Tracee didn’t respond right away. She looked at him, eyes narrowed in suspicion. “… I’m going to pretend you didn’t just say that,” she eventually said. “Anyway, I looked on Myspace and discovered Evelyn wasn’t actually born in Chicago. Dug a little deeper with Frank’s info, and saw that he was also not born here.” Dean turned on the laptop as she spoke, waiting for some relevance. He had gotten to the point where he could look over her weird thing with not remembering anyone’s names. Like, Tracee was super nerdy, but she couldn’t remember names? She was definitely a weird one. “They were born in the same place, and the only reason I’m bringing it up is because… they both came from your hometown.”

“What? Lawrence?” Dean gave her his full attention. Tracee nodded her head. “And that’s the _only_ connection between the two?”

“I’ve looked for anything else to see if that’s just a coincidence, but that’s the only thing I can find that really connects them.”

“Holy crap,” Dean muttered, not really knowing how to respond to that. “We… We’ve gotta tell Sam.”

“Not yet—that’s not something we should tell him over the phone,” Tracee said. “When he gets back, we can tell him so that we can put our heads together to figure out what their birthplace has to do with anything.” She looked around as though just noticing the lack of Sam in the room. “Where is he, anyway?”

“He’s, _uh_ , following a lead,” Dean replied. “Well, he _thinks_ he’s following a lead. Personally, I think he’s just trying to get laid.”

“Ex- _Excuse_ me?”

“Yeah, he found this chick at the bar. He said he knew her, and said that it was strange that they ran into each other again,” Dean explained. He looked back to the laptop to see that it had loaded up the desktop. Sam had had it password protected, but he had been convinced to get rid of it since all three of them used it. “She’s pretty hot, but kinda bitchy.” Remembering her self-righteous words on Sam’s behalf had him scowling again. Luggage, his ass… “He thinks she might have something to do with the waitress, and so he tailed her.”

“But you think that’s just a pretext and that… that he’s really _interested_ in her?” Tracee slowly asked.

“Yeah, definitely,” Dean said as he brought up the web browser. “It’s been awhile since he’s gotten _acquainted_ with someone. He might not even come back tonight.” He heard her scoff as she plopped down on the bed. She muttered something he could not understand as she slammed her book shut. “You find anything more about the symbol?”

“No,” came her curt response. “I sent out a picture to… to someone.” She stood up and headed over to the opposite dresser and grabbed her cell phone. “I’m going to call them. If you know someone else that can look into the symbol, ask just in case my source doesn’t come through.”

“Where you going?”

“It’s a private call.”

“But it’s raining outside…”

“I’m not going outside, you _numpty_!”

Dean flinched as the front door slammed shut with her exit. He grimaced, realizing that she had gone full on British with that last sentence. What the hell made her so upset? He blinked in confusion, and then tried to focus on looking for this girl Sam had gotten all obsessed about. He tried not to think about the Lawrence, Kansas connection between the two victims. Not just yet. No need to stir the pot if all the ingredients weren’t there yet. That’s probably the reason Tracee hadn’t wanted to tell them as soon as she had found out. Dean glanced at the door, briefly questioning her odd behavior before shrugging again. It’d all work out eventually.

 

0-0

 

Tracee was pacing the length of the inn’s lobby. Since it was late, it was completely deserted, giving her privacy. Honestly, she knew she shouldn’t feel anything about what she had just heard. She knew it. But damn if she didn’t feel all sorts of things. She sighed heavily, waiting for the line to pick up. During the course of several weeks, her _source_ had become a valuable confidant. It was… nice, trusting another person. Yes, she trusted Dean and Sam, but there were some things they didn’t need to hear about. This was one of them. The line finally picked up, and a familiar voice greeted her. “You just sent the symbol an hour ago,” she stated, sounding as though she was stifling a yawn. “Give me time to look.”

“Hello to you, too, Cassie,” Tracee replied, rolling her eyes.

Cassie Robinson may have not wanted to physically be a part of the supernatural life, but she loved reading about it. It intrigued her, especially since she had discovered a secret room in the basement of her new house. It was a dusty library filled with various books about supernatural things—the Library, she had begun calling it. The former Mayor had had quite the collection that he apparently never used. That brought about more questions that the two Slayers still didn’t have answers to. The former Mayor hadn’t seemed like the ‘hunter’ type, after all. Especially since he hadn’t used the equipment in the first place.

“Yeah, hi,” Cassie greeted. Tracee heard pages flipping. “Haven’t found anything yet, but I’m sure I already saw the symbol in one of these books. I just hope that it’s in English.” Tracee remained silent. “But that isn’t why you called, is it?”

“It’s… It’s Samuel again.”

“ _Really_ , Tracee?” Cassie sighed. “I told you before! Either jump him or drop him—it’s not that hard of a choice.”

“I’ve _tried_ to drop him, but every time I think I’m about to, he does or says something that makes me want to jump him—jump him _hard_!”

“Well, if you hadn’t jumped him in the first place…”

“ _He_ jumped me! _I_ just kissed him! It wasn’t supposed to go beyond that, I swear!” Tracee protested. Cassie only hummed in a distracted way. She was probably only half-listening, and that was fine. She had already heard the ‘he literally tore my clothes off’ story before. “But anyway, Dean just told me that Samuel’s looking to get laid with this girl he met at a bar—probably blond…”

“It’s Dean, so I wouldn’t be surprised if he misinterpreted the whole thing. The man could make anything sound sexual,” Cassie murmured. “I should know—that’s how he got jumped.” Then she had the nerve to chuckle, probably remembering the experience. More pages were flipped. Tracee rolled her eyes. “Besides, even if it were true, you don’t have the right to be mad because you haven’t decided to jump or drop yet. You both are single adults who can do what, or who, they want.” As always, she made pretty valid points. Her valid points had always managed to stop Tracee from screaming in frustration. “How about you go out find some silly man and make out with him like you used to?”

“Maybe I should…” Tracee said. She had considered it previously, but nothing ever happened. She hadn’t made out with a stranger since meeting the Winchester brothers. Maybe that contributed to the lack of completely dropping Sam. “Anyway, what have you been up to?”

“You mean besides getting pulled from sleep at all hours of the night?” Cassie sarcastically asked. Tracee rolled her eyes. As if she hadn’t done the same. “I finished moving into the house. Still really odd that he gave it to me, but I’m getting used to it. Most of my time is here reading or working with the weapons if I’m not at work, I mean. It’s so weird that I already know how to use all of them even though I have no idea what half of them are.”

“Tell that to guns,” Tracee muttered bitterly. Cassie only gave an amused snort. “So you haven’t had any issues? All quiet on the western front?” It been weeks since they had left Cassie—weeks since her protection had supposedly faded.

“Nothing so far,” she replied. With it being so long, Tracee began to doubt that the protection for Cassie had disappeared with the Mayor’s death. Maybe something besides the man’s life had been the protection? It was a wonder how she hadn’t been found by something supernatural yet—besides the racist truck, anyway. “For which I am glad.”

“Keep telling yourself that, Slayer,” Tracee said, smiling a bit. Cassie’s growing interest in the supernatural would eventually lead to her _wanting_ a fight. She had already admitted to wanting another spar. It might just be inevitable.

“Shut up,” Cassie said without any bite. “ _Oh_ , here…!” Tracee immediately perked up, asking if she had found the symbol. “Yeah, I knew it was in this book!” She heard the rustling of a page. “Looks like a pretty small section, but the symbol is a Zoroastrian sigil for _daeva_. Creatures of darkness… false demons… They’re mostly invisible and can use the shadows to move.”

“Shadows, huh? I guess that would explain how they’re getting into places without having to worry about security measures,” Tracee muttered. “Does it say anything about why it targets people?”

“No… wait…” There was a pause on Cassie’s end. “ _Uh_ , okay, so they’re actually pretty animalistic, which means they can be tamed. They have to be summoned from their own dimension, and they follow the orders of the one who summoned them.”

“Someone purposely summoned this thing?”

“Some _thing_ probably. Humans wouldn’t be able to control them,” Cassie remarked. “Says here that demons use them to do their dirty work sometimes. They are willing to kill their commander just as easily as their victim, given the chance. They’re basically savage contract killers…”

“Great, so we’re dealing with a real demon this time,” Tracee’s tone was sarcastic, but on the inside she was trembling with anticipation. This could be it. This could be the deciding factor. She wondered what type of demon it could be. “How do we kill the daeva?”

“Doesn’t say,” Cassie answered. “I suggest keeping the lights on.”

“Brilliant.”

“Hey, I could be sleeping right now, you know!”

“That wasn’t sarcasm!”

“Yeah, okay. I’m hanging up now.”

“Thank you, bye! Call me if you need me!” The click of the other line disconnecting caused Tracee to grin nervously. She really must have caught her sleeping. Sighing lightly, she crossed her arms. She felt better, at least, and she had gotten some info on what they could be dealing with. “False demons, huh?” Tracee mumbled as she headed for the stairway. She had read something in the handbook about them. The book had called them lesser demons, though. She wondered if she could find something further on these creatures—mainly how to kill them. Savage creatures couldn’t be reasoned with, after all. And if there was a sentient demon running around and summoning their vicious pets, what exactly was the intent?

Tracee did not like the sounds of this, especially since the only connection between the two victims were their place of birth. She wondered if Dean had already started thinking about the thing that had killed his mother. Scratching at her neck, she quickly headed back to their room. She wanted to research before Sam made his way back so that all cards would be on the table. Hopefully, he came back tonight. _He’d better come back tonight_ , a sharp, bitter thought. Tracee grimaced as she opened the door. Like Cassie had told her, it wasn’t her right to have thoughts like that.

She went inside, letting the door close behind her. As she walked further in, Dean glanced at her, slight grin on his face. He had his phone up to his ear, clearly talking to someone. Judging from the mischievous look in his eyes, he was more than likely teasing his brother. Or was about to. “I think we’ve got a major player in town,” he said into the receiver. “Now, why don’t you go give that girl a private strip-o-gram?” Instantly, Tracee became irritated again. Well, more like a cross between irritated and turned on… “No, bite _her_ ,” Dean continued, grin stretching across his face now. “Don’t leave teeth marks, though. Just enough to-” Apparently, he had gotten hung up on because he repeatedly called Sam’s name. Then he had the nerve to look her way as though confused.

“You’re a twat,” Tracee told him, scowl in place.

“What the hell’s a twat?” he asked, shutting his phone.

“Nothing,” she snapped, placing her cell phone on the dresser. She stopped herself from stomping over to the bed. Tracee laid down and opened her handbook again. “Did he find anything?”

“No, actually, I called him,” Dean stated. “Found out about the symbol.” He then proceeded to tell her all he learned. Basically, it was the same information Cassie had given to her already. Except the part about a demon summoning the daeva. “Your source find anything different?”

“… I don’t think so. Sounds like the same info to me,” Tracee said. She had decided to tell them the last bit of information once they were all back together. “ _Um_ … Is Samuel coming back then?”

“He didn’t say he was. Hopefully, he takes my advice,” Dean said.

“About the teeth marks? _Shyeah_ , I’m pretty sure he knows about that already,” Tracee said under her breath. After all, he had bitten her in places that had been easily covered until the Slayer healing kicked in. She missed those marks. It had been weeks since, but she idly wondered if Sam still had her teeth marks near his hip bone. Definitely not, but oh, how the mind raced. The older brother made a noise, snapping her out of sensual thoughts. She cleared her throat, gaze focusing on the words of her handbook. Maybe Dean hadn’t heard her clearly, and that was just fine with her. “I’m going to look to see if there’s anything about the daeva in here.” She flipped a page and began reading.

“You want to order something?” Dean asked.

“I’m not hungry.”

“Trace…” he said her nickname with a knowing tone. Tracee pouted, a bit embarrassed that he knew her so well. She sighed lightly, and then told him to order two large pizzas—meat lovers. Dean grinned at her. “That’s my girl.” She rolled her eyes, but the smile canceled out her display of irritation. Dean could make her want to hit him in one moment, but then make her want to hug in in the next. “You want anything to wash it down with?” he asked, flipping open his cell phone again.

“See if they have cherry coke.”

“You and your cherry thing…” Dean muttered as he dialed a number.

“You’re one to talk, Mr. Pie is Life.”

“It _is_!”

 

0-0

 

Sam pushed open the door, feeling both wired and exhausted. It wasn’t an uncommon feeling for him to have. He had stayed up all night, watching Meg. Even after his discovery of that alter. Assumingly, the girl was using it to summon the daeva. It had been a shocking discovery that had put him on edge. It had been the reason Sam had decided to continue watching her despite his body urging him to return to the inn for sleep. Having not discovered anything else, he finally drove back, ready to tell Dean and Tracee what he had witnessed. Still, there was something bugging him about all this. How did Meg come to be mixed up in demonic rituals? How did she even know about the supernatural in the first place? And why was she ordering those things to attack and kill people?

Frowning, Sam walked further into the room, eyes immediately scanning for his brother or Tracee. He almost wished he hadn’t found anything at all, and that Meg was normal. Dean must have heard the door close because he appeared seconds later. “Dude, I’ve got to talk to you.” They had spoken in unison, causing Sam to furrow his brow. Dean had found something, it appeared. He gestured for Sam to start. Nodding, he began to tell his brother what exactly he had seen. What was relevant, anyway. He didn’t need to know he had accidently caught Meg in her bra. Or that he had been caught watching it happen. Dean would never let it go.

“So hot little Meg is summoning the daeva?” he summarized. Sam restrained the urge to roll his eyes. Leave it to his brother… The black alter seemed to be used for controlling the daeva, he told him. “So Sammy’s got a thing for the bad girl.” This time, Sam did not refrain from rolling his eyes. He quickly looked around. Tracee was nowhere in sight. She hadn’t appeared at all yet. Sam was about to ask, but Dean didn’t notice. “And what’s the deal with that bowl again?” he asked.

“She was talking into it… the way witches used to scry into crystal balls or animal entrails,” Sam explained. “I don’t think she was communicating with the daeva since their savages. I think she’s getting orders from someone else—someone who’s coming to that warehouse tonight.” Dean’s eyes suddenly widened. “What?”

“What I was going to tell you earlier,” he said. “Trace found a connection between the two victims. They both were born in Lawrence, Kansas.” It took a moment to process. Sam breathed out softly, mind already coming up with theories.

“Holy crap,” he said, taking a seat at the small table. Dean nodded his head and sat down across from him. “It’s where everything started… You think Meg is tied up with _that_ demon?” This felt too personal for it to be a coincidence. Finding Meg on that stretch of road. Seeing her again in a completely different place where victims had been mutilated just because of their place of birth. It felt like _they_ had been targeted. “What’s the significance of Lawrence, though? And how do these daevas fit in?”

“Beats me. I say we trash that black alter, grab Meg, and have ourselves a little friendly interrogation,” Dean stated.

“No,” Sam replied, shaking his head. “We shouldn’t tip her off. We’ve got to find out who… or what is showing up there to meet her. It’s the only way we’re going to get some real answers.” It took a beat, but Dean eventually nodded his head in agreement.

“Okay, but I’ll tell you one thing,” he said. “I don’t think we should do this alone.” Sam immediately knew who his brother wanted to contact. There was real chance that whatever was coming to the warehouse tonight could be the thing that killed their mom. The thing their dad had been searching for. There was a real chance everything could be over _tonight_. “I’m going to call dad.”

“Okay, I’ll go down and get some weapons so we can prepare for this,” Sam stated, standing up. “Where’s Tracee, by the way?” They had been talking for a good ten minutes, and yet she hadn’t appeared.

“She took off this morning,” Dean answered. “Said she was getting breakfast at that bakery down the street.”

“Oh… Okay,” he muttered. “I’ll be back in a sec.” Sam headed towards the door. If things were really over tonight… Tracee would… Truthfully, he hadn’t thought about it. He had wanted her to be a part of this life—well, _their_ lives. She had agreed, wanting them to teach her. He had encouraged it without really thinking about what came after his mom and Jessica had their justice. For a long time, the plan had been to return to school. He hadn’t expected to meet Tracee. He hadn’t expected to become so entangled with her. Ever since Ashland, he had been tangled up in her. So tangled, but not together. Sam thought he would have more time to change that. Or, at the very least, become untangled. Now… It could be over in mere hours.

So deep in thoughts, Sam didn’t realize he was standing beside the Impala until he walked into it. The slight impact snapped him out of it. He shook his head, and then sighed. Thinking about it right now did nothing. He wouldn’t know anything until they made it back to the warehouse. Whatever showed up would provide answers. Thinking about it now would only cause problems inside his own head. Sam sighed again as he dug the keys from his jacket pocket. He opened the trunk of the car, and then the secret compartment. There were already empty holdall bags, so he began loading them up with just about everything in their arsenal. Once they were full, he lifted them with a grunt and slammed down the top of the trunk.

“No, it’s ‘They offer coke, and _lots of dope_!’ Not laxido! What the hell is laxido, anyway?” Her familiar voice caused Sam to stiffen, and then turn in the direction her voice had come from. There she was, walking towards him. She was talking on the phone and appeared completely focused on the conversation. Her other hand carried a white plastic bag that held a large squared box. Tracee giggled, seemingly not noticing him yet. “Yeah, yeah—when we play _SingStar_ , and I beat you, you can’t say anything.” Her eyes finally looked in his direction, and Sam found himself smiling. She did not return it like she normally would have. “Okay, I have to go now. Talk to you later... Bye.”

“Hey,” Sam greeted her as she approached. “Was that Cassie?” Tracee would speak to Dean’s ex, at least, three times a week. Normally, their conversations happened out of earshot, probably out of consideration for his brother.

“… Good morning,” Tracee replied. Then, she nodded her head. “Yeah, it was Cassie.” She moved up the steps without another glance in direction. He furrowed his brow. He had been expecting a hug to be honest. After almost being kidnapped a couple weeks ago, she would always initiate an embrace if he was gone for more than a few hours. Dean did it, too, occasionally. But that was mostly teasing on his part. Hers were not teasing in the least and they were always so… nice. It was bit like ‘Welcome home’ in a physical sense. He had come to hope for it every time. So, it wasn’t weird that he felt disappointed, was it?

Sam hurriedly followed after her. They entered the inn together, but she seemed to be ignoring his presence. “So, hey… I found out something last night,” he began. “It’s, _uh_ , why I didn’t come back.” She didn’t reply to that. “Is everything okay?”

“Sleep didn’t come easy last night.” Sam flinched. Though she had given an answer, her words came off as accusing. But why? Well, maybe he could have texted or called to let her know. They usually slept together, so maybe she hadn’t been prepared for him not being there… It seemed like more than that, though. “So? What did you find _watching_ that girl all night?” It came to him like a punch to the gut. Damn it, Dean! The last thing he had told his brother, and he couldn’t keep his mouth shut!

“That-! I wasn’t watching her like that!” Sam sputtered out. “I don’t know what Dean told you, but he’s an idiot.” She hummed noncommittedly. “I just… I just had a weird feeling about her, so I—anyway, she’s the one who’s summoning the daeva. But she’s taking orders from someone else. I already told Dean about it.” Tracee hummed lightly again as she opened the door to their room. “Whoever it is will come meet her tonight at the warehouse I followed her to. We’re going to go and see if we can get answers as to why all this is happening.”

“Good plan,” Tracee remarked, walking further into the room. Sam sighed heavily, feeling as though the explanation had not helped in the least. Damn it, Dean. “Hey, I’m back,” she announced. His brother snapped his phone closed. By his expression, Sam could tell he wasn’t able to get in touch with their dad. “What’s wrong?”

“ _Nah_ , nothing—looks like it’s just the three of us, that’s all,” he replied.

“Voicemail?” Sam asked.

“Yep,” Dean confirmed, standing from the other bed. Sam deposited the bags on the empty bed as Tracee left his side to set down the bag she carried. “ _Jeez_ , what’d you get?” He massaged his shoulder, trying to work out the strain in his muscle from carrying such a heavy load. He sighed, rolled his shoulders, and then told Dean he had basically raided the trunk for pretty much everything. His brother nodded his head in approval as Sam listed just some of the things he had carried up. “You brought Trace’s toy sword?”

“Oh, I didn’t realize,” Sam muttered.

“That’s not a toy,” Tracee said, walking toward them. Both brothers turned to her. She had a donut in her hand. She passed it to Dean and took the wooden sword in exchange. With a flick of her wrist, she twisted the hilt, and then pulled solid steel from the sheath. “It only looks like my _bokken_. I left that at home.” She twirled the wooden sheath before sliding the sword back in place. With a click, it returned to looking like just for practice. Ignoring their looks, she set the sword back down on the bed.

“You’re ready to slice and dice something, Trace?” Dean asked.

“If the situation calls for it,” she shrugged. “Can’t use a gun, anyway, so it’s not like I have a choice.” She headed back to the kitchen as Dean put the donut in his mouth. Sam sighed heavily as he picked up a gun. He began inspecting it, but his mind drifted to Tracee. This could be her first _real_ encounter with the supernatural. He wondered how she felt about it.

“So…” Dean had finished eating his donut. Sam briefly wondered why he hadn’t been brought a donut. “Big night,” he continued, picking up a shotgun. Sam tossed him a few bullets in response. His brother caught them and started loading them.

“Yeah,” he replied, frowning. Sam breathed in deeply, and then looked towards his brother. “You nervous?”

“No,” Dean shook his head. “No, are you?”

“No. No way,” he answered.

Clearly, they both were. They fell into an awkward silence as they continued to check over the guns. Tracee came back, clearing her throat to announce her presence. “There’s something I have to tell you both,” she stated. She had a little powdered sugar at the corner of her mouth. It was a bit distracting. “I held back until we were all together again, but I found out this bit of info last night.”

“What is it?” Sam asked.

“These daeva—they’re ancient creatures, but they are still considered to be of a lesser class,” Tracee explained. “They can be conjured and controlled, but only by other demons.” She crossed her arms, looking directly at Sam. “So if what you say is true, your little girlfriend is a demon.”

“She’s not my girlfriend!” he protested. Then the second bit of her words processed. “She’s a _demon_?”

“Really, Sammy? You just had to pick the _one_ chick-” Dean started.

“Shut up!” Sam retorted before he can finish. He turned back to Tracee. She didn’t appeared bothered by this new information. Well, she had been sitting on it, waiting for them all to be gathered. “How sure are you about that?” he asked her.

“As sure as anyone with a theory,” Tracee replied, shrugging. “Don’t know for sure unless it’s proven. I’m just telling you what I learned.”

“Great,” Dean said sarcastically. “Here, I was thinking this was going to be an easy smash and grab.” He sighed heavily. “I’m going to the warehouse. You two finish up here.”

“Dean, if it’s a demon, you can’t-!”

“If it’s there, I’ll come back. But if not, I’m going to leave a few things behind,” Dean stated, interrupting Sam. “We’re dealing with a _demon_ here, Sammy. We gotta take extra precaution. You stay here, get a couple hours of sleep, and then we’ll all deal with this.”

“Be careful,” Tracee said. She gave him a hug, and he returned it, muttering a ‘You, too.’ They parted, and then Dean grabbed one of the bags from the bed before heading out. Once the door closed, Sam returned his attention back to Tracee. She was in the middle of wiping that powdered sugar from the corner of her mouth. “There’s muffins in there, too, if you want before you go to sleep,” she told him. Her tongue darted out to lick the sugar off her thumb. Sam swallowed hard.

“I’m actually-” He cleared his throat. “-I actually should sleep first, but thank you.” Tracee shrugged her shoulders, gaze shifting to the floor. She scratched at her neck.

“You… watched her all night without sleeping?” she questioned.

“Not _her_ specifically. Just where she lives,” Sam answered.

“Oh…” she muttered, wringing her fingers in front of her. “Well, I guess I should let you sleep. I’ll try to save you some food, but I wouldn’t get my hopes up.” Sam chuckled, glad to that she was teasing him again. It wasn’t a smile, and it wasn’t an embrace, but it was a start… It should have been enough. However, he was greedy. He felt the strangest—no, most _natural_ —urge to reach for her. So when she turned to go, his right hand shot forward, fingers sliding across her right side. She stiffened under his touch, but did not recoil. “Something wrong?” Her body relaxed even before she had finished talking.

“No, I just remember you saying that you didn’t sleep good last night,” Sam told her. “Come join me.”

“Are you sure?” Tracee asked, turning to face him.

Unable to help himself—because this conversation had already happened, only the roles were reversed—he smiled and nodded. “I wouldn’t ask otherwise.” To his elation, she returned his smile. Then lightly pressed her palms against his chest. Sam internally quivered, as he tended to do whenever she touched him. What he wouldn’t give for this to be just like that night. He could be kissing her. He _should_ be kissing her. But he kept still, allowing Tracee to slide his jacket from his shoulders. It fell to the floor, but he paid no mind. Both hands found her sides and slid up her torso. She stepped closer, letting her dark blue denim jacket be removed. Once it fell to the floor, Sam took her by the hand and headed over to their bed.

Not bothering with the covers, he laid down first, on his side. Then she crawled on top of the bed after kicking off her shoes. Sam pushed his own shoes off, and then nudged them off the bed. Tracee settled beside him, letting him wrap his arms around her. Her white and blue striped shirt was thin enough for him to feel the heat of her skin. Sam sighed in content, pressing his nose against her shoulder blade. He wasn’t doing a good job at untangling himself, was he? Tracee let out a sigh as well, sounding just as pleased. Sam couldn’t bring himself to care about untangling at the moment.

For a few moments, they laid there in silence, Tracee idly caressing Sam’s fingers over where they lay on her hip. He had almost gone to sleep when she shifted his hand from her hip to her waist. “Samuel,” she called to him. Sam inhaled through his nose as he shifted his head. His nose was now pressed against the back of her head, reveling in the scent of her hair. “Do you come across demons often?” He cracked an eye open, wondering where the question came from. “You guys told me about the one on the airplane, but that was the only occurrence.”

“They’re not actually common, no,” Sam answered. “But don’t worry. Our dad’s journal has plenty of things. Dean and I know what we’re doing.”

“But there’s going to be more than one…”

“Are you nervous?”

“… Yes.” Her answer surprised him. For some reason, it really did. He knew it would be her first time—her first real time—with the supernatural. He understood clearly how the first time could be frightening. Maybe he had overestimated her reaction because of what he had already seen from her. Sam couldn’t really imagine her being afraid of anything. Except insects, of course. “It kinda feels like I’m about to jump off a ledge into the unknown. Demons must be different from humans. Their motivations could be vastly different from us. I think my Psych classes won’t be much help in this situation. I’m not accustomed with this, so _shyeah_ , I’m pretty nervous.” Right. He had forgotten. Tracee didn’t like not knowing things. This might even be a deciding factor as to what she intended to do. Stay or go.

“Don’t worry,” Sam repeated. “Dean and I will protect you.” He gave her a reassuring squeeze around her middle. “If you want, you can just sit back and observe. We’re not trying to push.” For a long moment, Tracee did not respond. Then she shifted her body until she was facing him. She pressed her forehead against his chest, so he couldn’t see her expression. But he did feel her lips against him, and she was definitely smiling.

“Thank you,” she said, voice muffled by his shirt. Her arms slid around him in same way his arms were around her. Sam felt himself smiling in response. They were tangled up in each other, and he didn’t mind at all. This felt… seamless. He shut his eyes, preparing to sleep. Maybe… if things did end tonight, he could stick around regardless. After all, Tracee had said she wanted two instructors, not just Dean. School could wait, after all. So no matter what happened tonight, he planned on staying. At least, for a little while. He hoped she did, too.

 

0-0

 

This situation officially sucked. They had been knocked out almost instantly after coming to the warehouse. Instead of taking Meg by surprise, she had been the one with the upper hand. This whole thing had been her trap. And not for them. Oh no. It had been for their dad. They had only been lured as _bait_ so that John Winchester could be lured himself. It annoyed Dean to no end. He and Sam were tied up, bleeding, and at the mercy of this demon chick who seemed to be taking quite the pleasure in taunting them. The Devil’s Trap had failed because Meg was moving around freely even though she should have been stuck near the alter where they had found her chanting earlier. Something must have gone wrong. That or Meg wasn’t a demon, after all. Dean was inclined to believing in the former, though. He didn’t know why, but he trusted Tracee’s intel.

Speaking of which, Meg hadn’t mentioned Tracee at all. Like he had thought, she hadn’t known about their backup. It had been the reason he and Sam went up through the elevator shaft, and Tracee had gone the locked way. The tiny tank had bypassed the locks easily and had taken the stair route. Because of that, there was a high chance they could all make it out of this. As long as Meg didn’t realize that they knew she was a demon, and that they had a Trace in the hole, his plan could still work.

“Why are you doing this, Meg?” Sam demanded to know. Her eyes remained where they were, focused on Dean. He glared hard at her, pissed that she was taking them so lightly. “What kinda deal you got worked here out, _huh_? And with who?” His brother was still trying to get information even in his tied up position. Something told Dean they would be getting any more answers until they trapped her, though. Meg finally snapped her gaze to Sam, appearing just a bit annoyed with his questions. Well, Sammy also had a knack for that.

“I’m doing this for the same reasons you do what you do,” Meg said. “Loyalty, love.” Dean had to stop himself from scoffing. Sam did not. Dean could almost sense his brother rolling his eyes, too. “Like the love you had for mommy… and _Jess_.” Like a trigger, his brother shot off an angry ‘Go to Hell!’ like a bullet. Meg didn’t seem the least bit concerned. She merely chuckled. “Baby, I’m already there.” She slowly began to crawl over to him, completely disregarding Dean. “Come on, Sam. There’s no need to be nasty.” She straddled his legs, grinning widely. She looked insane with a hint of creepy. “I think we both know… how you really feel about me,” Meg continued, whispering in his ear. She reared back and sat on his legs. “You know, I saw you… watching me… changing in my apartment.”

Dean couldn’t stop the incredulous look that crossed his face. That had been something Sammy had neglected to mention, and was not something Dean was going to forget any time soon. But, for now, he had more important things to worry about. Watching the two, he began subtly dislodging the blade in his sleeve. He had to prepare for the arrival.

“It turned you on, didn’t it?” Meg asked, sliding her cheek against Sam’s bruised one. “I didn’t mind. I liked that you were watching me. Come on, Sammy, you and I can still have a little _dirty_ _fun_.”

“Don’t you fucking touch me,” Sam nearly snarled in protest, snapping his head away from Meg’s wandering lips. The venom in his voice caused Meg to halt her molestation before it began and Dean to focus on him. He, too, had been surprised. It wasn’t often his brother dropped the F-bomb. Hell, he couldn’t recall a time that his brother did, actually. Either his brother was disgusted about the fact that this demon chick was coming on to him, or he was a bit angrier about the comment regarding their mother and Jessica than Dean first thought. “Go have your _dirty_ fun somewhere else.”

Meg stared at Sam for a moment before rising from her position on top of his legs. The mocking smile appeared seconds later. “ _Aw_ , Sam,” she cooed. “You’re so mean. That hurt my feelings.” Sam scoffed, completely uninterested. A click suddenly sounded, causing Dean to wince. He hoped that hadn’t been his knife. But Meg didn’t look at him. Instead, she turned hard eyes on the door behind them. “Too bad for you—our fun’s gonna be postponed indefinitely.” She backed away from them, eyes still on the door. “Looks like Daddy’s come for you, after all.”

Despite knowing that that was impossible, Dean readily craned his neck to look behind him. Just for a second, he hoped John Winchester would come walking through that door. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Sam had done the same. The door opened, but it was not their dad. Just Tracee with her hand on the hilt of her sword. She looked hardened. _Predator_ , his mind told him again. This was the third time he had seen her steely expression. Man, Dean was glad the tiny tank favored them.

“You’re not Daddy. Who are you? An innocent bystander?” Meg questioned. Instead of answering, Tracee pulled her sword from its sheath. Meg chuckled mockingly. “Another _hunter_ then? You guys didn’t tell me you picked up a stray.” Still, Tracee did not speak. Meg scoffed lightly. “Too bad you’re not important enough to keep alive.”

“Sorry. I’m a bit late, aren’t I?” Tracee finally spoke, voice laced with her British accent. It wasn’t full blown, but it was there. What had pissed her off? This time? “Bit of a water damage problem downstairs. I fixed it, though.” It was obvious she had ignored Meg’s words. Dean found himself grinning. He knew it. The plan could still work. “I see you two are injured… and I don’t care for that shit _at all_.”

“That’s too bad… because you’re about to experience a similar fate.”

As though her words were some type of trigger, Dean saw the shadows move along the wall, forming a humanoid shape. He sucked in a sharp breath, knowing the daeva were coming for Tracee. To his surprise, the tiny tank merely shut her eyes and breathed in deeply. She sharply side-stepped. Something cut into the sleeve of her denim jacket, appearing like claw marks. Then she swiftly twisted her body, sword slicing the air. She twirled and weaved her weapon like she had been doing it for years. Like a second nature. When she stopped, Dean noticed the blood on the sword. The thick liquid dripped from the tip. Two heavy thuds were heard, and then nothing at all. “It seems invisible doesn’t mean invincible,” Tracee snarked as she opened her eyes.

Dean almost couldn’t believe it. Tracee had killed the daeva. Two of them, apparently. He hadn’t been the only one shocked. Dean had turned back around to see that Meg had been gaping like a fish. He couldn’t help but grin in triumph. He knew the tiny tank would come in handy. “Who are _you_?” Meg hissed, still gawking. Dean used her distracted state to throw his blade at her. She cried out, stumbling back as the knife pierced her shoulder. He immediately stood up just as a second blade sank into her other shoulder, further pushing her backwards, right into the trap.

It had been Sam’s knife. He, too, stood, free from his bindings. Tracee stepped in between them, and they all stared down their trapped enemy. “Moment of truth,” she said. “ _Deus_ …!” Meg convulsed wildly before falling to her hands and knees and vomiting all over the place. Dean reared back in shock. _That_ had never happened before. Meg looked up, eyes blacker than the darkest black. She was demon alright, but that reaction to whatever Tracee had said was something he hadn’t seen a demon do. Not that he’d seen too many demons to know, but… still.

“Did you put a spell on her?” Dean asked, turning to the tiny tank next to him. Tracee looked his way, blinking to show her own confusion.

“No,” she said slowly. “I just said God in Latin, like you guys did for the one of the plane.”

“We said _Christo_!” he told her. Dean was vaguely aware that his words had made Meg shudder. Then his eyes darted to his brother. “I _thought_ it was _Christo_!” Sam shrugged, looking as though he didn’t care either way. Well, they both worked. It’s just that _Deus_ seemed to cause a harsher physical reaction.

“ _Christo_ is Christ not God,” Tracee stated with a roll of her eyes. Meg shuddered again.

“Good to know,” Dean replied with a shrug. He turned back to Meg, who was panting heavily as though she had been put through the ringer. Yeah, it was really good to know. “So, if you didn’t realize, Meg, we do know that you’re a demon. And you’re gonna help us find the demon you’re working for.” She only glared and ripped the blades from her shoulders. She then tried to fling both of them at him. Rude. Fortunately, Tracee grabbed them both mid-flight before the pointy ends could reach him. “Nice try.”

“You’re the second demon that we’ve come across who knew about the deaths of our mom and Jess,” Sam stated. “Are you all working together or something?” Meg stubbornly remained silent. “Tell us who you’re working for!”

“Easy, Sammy, we’ve got all night,” Dean assured.

“I’m not trying to be here all night,” Tracee objected. She glanced at him, and something in her eyes told him that it hadn’t just been a personal preference. Dean narrowed his eyes, looking back towards the captured demon. If his hunch was right, then that meant they did _not_ have all night. Tracee had mentioned water damaged, so she had fixed the symbol, but it wouldn’t keep for long. At least, that’s what he got from her glance.

“Fine,” Dean said, feigning exasperation. “Let’s speed this up, Meg. You want to tell us why you’re so determined to kill our family? Sure, we’re hunters, but this seems a little too… personal.” Instead of answer, she wiped the vomit from her chin with her sleeve, and then dug her hand into her pocket. Then she began speaking, but in a different language. “Yeah, try any spell you want—you ain’t getting out.” Meg only smirked at him, and he didn’t like that one bit. She pulled a necklace out of her pocket. The pendent looked just like the sigil.

“That’s-! She’s summoning more daeva!” Sam exclaimed.

“They’re not in the room,” Tracee muttered.

“Where could they-?” Dean halted his own sentence as a thought suddenly struck him. “Sam! Get the alter!” His brother moved towards the alter, but it was for nothing. Meg ran from where the Devil’s Trap should have kept her. She knocked Sam away before he reached alter. He flew through the air because of the demon’s strength. Tracee shouted, but he didn’t understand what she had said. She rushed towards Meg, but the demon took its leave via window. The glass shattered upon impact and Meg disappeared into the night. Frowning, Dean headed over to the broken window and looked down. There wasn’t anything left behind except the glass on the pavement below. “She’s gone.”

Huffing, Tracee left his side to check on his brother. Dean narrowed his eyes down at the ground before turning to do the same. He kicked the alter over, spilling the contents and hopefully making the binding ritual for the daeva useless. Meg might have gotten away, but he didn’t want the daeva sneaking up on them. Tracee knelt down next to Sam, whose back had hit the wall. He groaned as she lightly touched his bruised cheek. “You okay?” she asked, setting her sword down beside her.

“I’m… I’m fine—just a little dizzy,” Sam answered. He leaned into her touch and shut his eyes. “I’m good, though.” Tracee smiled, and then shifted her attention to Dean.

“What about you?” she questioned.

“A little bruising and scratches, but I’m fine, too,” he replied, rubbing his side. His body was definitely going to feel like crap tomorrow, though. “Hey, Sam…” He watched as Tracee helped his brother to his feet. Holding back a wince, Sam looked in his direction, arm around Tracee’s shoulders. “Next time you wanna get laid, find a girl that’s not so batshit crazy.” To his amusement, both Sam and Tracee rolled their eyes and told him to shut up at the same time. Well, he assumed Tracee had told him to shut up because she hadn’t used English. Sounded Chinese. “Let’s find our stuff and get the hell outta here.”

 

0-0

 

Five minutes later, and Tracee’s body had yet to stop buzzing with adrenaline. She felt flushed, irritated, and dissatisfied—a horrible combination that she hadn’t felt before. Most likely because the enemy had gotten away. The enemy that had caused the Winchesters to bleed whilst she had been on the floor below them, frantically trying to fix the symbol Dean had drawn in preparation of the plan. The moment she had seen the slightly distorted symbol, she had known the plan would not go right. She just hadn’t expected to find the brothers so helpless. The agitation she had felt about coming into contact with an actual demon had vanished and in its place anger had formed. She idly wondered if that had been how Cassie had felt when she had encountered the racist truck.

Tracee followed the two down the hallway towards their room. Both were visibly haggard, and that did little to stifle the irritation she felt. Dean’s plan had been a good one, but she wished she could have been with them from the start. God, Sam’s face looked ghastly. It would take _weeks_ to heal. If she had been there, maybe she could have taken that hit. Tracee scratched at her neck, half-listening to the Winchester’s conversation. Something about the bag Sam carried. She clenched her teeth as Dean opened the door to their room. Seeing them hurt like they were—it made her uncomfortable.

They entered the room, with Sam closing the door behind them. The plan was to treat their injuries, sleep, and then hit the road tomorrow. Their things had been packed into the Impala before they had ventured to the warehouse, so all they had to do was get up and go once morning came. Tracee had wanted to leave as soon as possible, with that Meg demon on the loose, but she also hadn’t wanted the two brothers to be driving around for hours without doing something about their bodies. So here they were, back at the inn. She could only hope that Meg hadn’t followed.

“Hey!” Dean’s shout caused her to snap out of her thoughts.

The shout hadn’t been directed at her. Tracee looked and saw the darkened silhouette of a person by the window. What was it with these brothers and _not_ locking doors? Why was the action so hard for them?! Tracee tensed, immediately reaching for her sword. Then she frowned, realizing she had left it in the car. No matter—she could still break stuff if necessary. Like hell she was going to let another demon hurt Dean or Sam so quickly after they’d already been put through the ringer. The light was flipped on, revealing a middle-aged man with dark hair, beard included. It annoyed her that she couldn’t sense this demon like she had with the daeva. She hadn’t been able to sense Meg either. She needed to go over the handbook again. The man was smiling, and she didn’t like that shit.

“Who are-?” Tracee began, stepping a step forward. Not that it mattered, she was still going to beat the crap out of him if he so much as looked at them wrong. However, before she could stand in front of them, Dean held her back.

“Calm down, tank,” he told her. “This is our _dad_!” _This_ was Poppa-Winchester? Despite the new information, her body did not relax. She had the strangest thought of the man pulled out a baseball bat. That couldn’t be right… Clearly not having the same thoughts, Dean stepped forward, smile stretching across his face.

“Hey, boys,” he greeted. This was John Winchester. He was the man responsible for his two sons becoming hunters—one resenting the lifestyle while the other felt there was no other way of life. This was the man she had foolishly compared with her own father. This was a man that demons had wanted to trap. This was a dangerous man. Relieved, Dean headed for his dad, and the two embraced. It was a strong embrace, visibly showing what type of bond they had. Tracee wondered if this is how she hugged her own father after prolonged absence. Sam awkwardly stepped forward as the two ended their hug. That’s right. Despite the stories he told of John Winchester, Sam and he hadn’t exactly saw eye to eye the last time they had been in the same room. “Hi, Sam…”

“Hey, dad…” Sam replied, just as hesitant. He set the bag on the floor. “This is… This is Tracee. She’s our… She’s our friend. She’s been helping us.”

“It’s a pleasure to meet you,” John politely greeted. “You a hunter?”

“Don’t worry, dad, she’s cool,” Dean spoke up, drawing his father’s attention. He cleared his throat. “It was a trap. I didn’t know. I’m sorry.”

“It’s alright. I thought it might have been,” John stated.

“Were you there?” Dean asked.

“Yeah, I got there just in time to see the girl take a swan dive,” he answered. “Shadows snatched her up and took her away.”

“She was actually a demon,” Sam chimed in. “Dad, they were looking to kill you.”

“It doesn’t surprise me. It’s tried to stop me before,” John said.

“The demon has?” Sam questioned.

“It knows I’m close. It knows I’m gonna kill it. Not just exorcise it or send it back to Hell—actually kill it.”

“That’s possible?” Tracee murmured, mostly to herself. She had read that these types of demons could only be banished from their vessel, but not killed. They could literally turn up a few weeks, months, or years later. John raised a brow, looking slightly surprised by her knowledge. Tracee could tell he had a lot of questions for her. Of course he did. A girl he didn’t know was traveling around with his sons. Instead of asking questions, though, he merely stated that he was ‘working on it.’ So the man just had a theory, did he?

“Let us come with you,” Sam said. “We’ll help.”

“No, Sam,” John protested, shaking his head. “Not yet. Try to understand. This demon is scary son of a bitch. I don’t want you caught in the crossfire. I don’t want you hurt.”

“Dad, you don’t have to worry about us,” Sam persisted. “This is what you trained us for!”

“This is _not_ what I trained you for,” John retorted. “And of _course_ I have to worry about you. I’m still your father.” Despite his words, Tracee doubted it would make the two forget about going after the demon that killed their mother. “Listen, Sammy, _uh_ … The last time we were together, we had one hell of a fight.”

“Yes, sir,” Sam said. Tracee blinked at the almost awkward scene she was witnessing. She knew about the disowning argument they had had, but it was obvious the two still loved one another. The tears in both of their eyes had been the massive indicator of their repressed feelings. Forcing herself not to roll her eyes, she subtly nudged Sam in the direction of his father. The two stumbled into an embrace, but it wasn’t exactly the same as the previous hug between John and Dean. It was heartfelt and full of unspoken apologies.

Tracee had to hold back a smile as she watched father and son exchange quiet conversation as they hugged. She couldn’t believe how touching the scene in front of her was. A quick glance in Dean’s direction told her that he, too, was trying to hold back tears. He looked happy and so proud. Of course. They were his family. If her heartstrings had been tugged, his must have been yanked hard. When had things changed? When had she begun to care enough to be _moved_ by things like this? Admittedly, it… wasn’t a bad feeling to have.

Suddenly, she felt a prickly awareness. It was a hair-raising, bone chilling sensation that she had felt before. The daeva were back. She took a sharp breath, but that had been all she could do before the invisible foes knocked her off her feet. Her head bounced off the wall, and she crumbled to the floor, vaguely aware of Sam shouting her name. She was dragged across the floor by her jacket and flung against another wall. The shouts of the men in the room were drowned out by her own screams as claws dug painfully into her face and swiped down her neck. With her arms restrained over her head, she could do little to stop the claws from getting at her skin.

“NO!” Sam’s shout broke through the pain, and suddenly the dresser skidded across the floor, seemingly of its own violation. Tracee couldn’t see, but it must have knocked into the daeva that had pinned her because her arms were no longer held in place. They fell, limply, to her sides. She stared wide-eyed at the piece of furniture that had taken care of the lesser demons. “Shield your eyes!” Tracee barely had time to follow the command before the room was filled with a blinding light and white smoke. Someone, probably Sam, had activated a flare. Coughing and sputtering as the smoke made contact with her lungs, she attempted to stand. It had taken a little help from Sam to get her back on her feet. “Come on! Let’s go!”

For now, she pushed back the burning of the slices in her skin and staggered with Sam towards the door. Arm securely around her waist, Sam didn’t stop dragging her along until they had made it to the Impala. Tracee groaned lightly as he leaned her against the car. Claws had gotten to her belly and it hurt to even breathe. Sam opened the door and threw the bag inside the backseat. Shivers racked her body as she fought to keep her stomach contents down. She barely paid attention to the voices of the three men near her. She wanted to curl up and hide to be perfectly honest. She wanted to get away from this place as soon as possible. She… She wanted to _cry_.

“Sam! _Listen_ to me!” Dean’s bark jolted her and caused her gaze to focus on the older brother. All three men were panting heavily. Hell, she was, too. “We almost got dad killed in there. Don’t you understand? They’re not going to stop. They’re gonna try again. They’re gonna use _us_ to get to him! I mean, Meg was right! Dad’s vulnerable when he’s with us.” Dean had gotten sliced into as well. His cuts were bleeding, and the blood slid down his face from his forehead. “He… He’s stronger without us around…”

“Dad, no…” Sam clamped a hand on his father’s shoulder. “After everything… After all the time we spent looking for you… _please_.”

“Sam…” John whispered, clutching the hand that held him.

“No! I _have_ to be a part of this fight!”

“Sammy, this fight is just starting, and we are all going to have a part to play,” John assured. Tracee swallowed hard, finding herself not liking what his words implied. “For now, you’ve got to trust me, son. You’ve got to let me go.” For a moment, she thought Sam would protest more, but in the end, he released his father’s shoulder and turned to the side. This allowed John to walk pass them, heading for a truck in front of the Impala. “Be careful,” he told them, and then climbed into the large truck.

“Yeah, you, too…” Dean murmured. Seconds later, he opened up the driver side door. “Come on.” He slide into the driver’s seat and shut the door. Sam sighed heavily before turning to head to the passenger side. Before he could make it two steps, Tracee latched on to him, fingers curling around his shirt. Against him, she could see her hands trembling.

“Hey… Hey, you okay?” he asked, voice soft and concerned.

“No…” Tracee mumbled. Her vision suddenly blurred and she felt liquid sliding down her face. “N-No,” she repeated, voice cracking. She was suddenly enveloped in his arms. She immediately felt safer, but that did not stop the tears from falling.

“Hey, come on, I’ve got you,” Sam said, soothingly rubbing her back. Tracee did not respond to his words, only his actions. Her body finally relaxed. Only then did he remove one arms to open the back door again. It took some maneuvering, but he got them both in the backseat with her very nearly straddling his form because she did not release him. She pressed her forehead against his chest, taking comfort of the warmth she felt. “I’ve got you, Cherry. I’ve got you.” One arm wrapped around her, hand reaching and fingers sliding through her hair repeatedly. “It’s okay. I’ve got you.”

Tracee pressed her lips into a thin line as she shut her eyes. The car came to a life with a rumble from the engine. The familiar sound of the Impala as it drove, and the mantra from Sam, mollified her body and mind. She felt herself drifting. Had this situation happened to her _by herself_ , she would quit. Definitely, and without hesitance. Because that had been _fucking scary_. And John Winchester had said the demon they were looking for would be much worse. Oh, God… Still, despite her reservations and sudden fear of this crazy life, she couldn’t just leave. She couldn’t just _drop_ Sam, or Dean. Had she remained selfish, and not started caring for the two, she would have gone back to Ashland. But now, she couldn’t. She wouldn’t. So with the comforting sound of the Impala and Sam’s gentle voice, Tracee made a promise to herself. She would willingly take that jump off the ledge.

And do what needed to be done.


	11. Distractions

Finally, they were on the road again. After damn near a month, the three had packed up and ventured out into the world. Tracee had been adamant that they didn’t begin hunting again until their faces were completely healed. She had carefully—a little bit aggressively, too—tended to the scratches they had endured due to the daeva. Clearly, she hadn’t had any medical training, but that had not stopped her from applying ointments and Vaseline to the cuts twice daily. Now, they were fine, without scars left behind. Tracee, of course, healed much quicker than they had.

But _she_ wasn’t fine. Dean had noticed she had been… off ever since they had left Chicago. She hadn’t been as vocal. Hadn’t laughed at most of his awesome jokes. Hadn’t even smiled—not really. She had been _noticeably_ reserved. Obviously, she had been keeping something inside herself that she hadn’t been willing to share with him or Sam. Dean had hoped she would lighten up once they hit the road, but… Well, Sam had been in a funk, too. He hadn’t wanted to split up from their dad so soon after reuniting. The two had been gloomy together, cuddling up with each other for the weeks that followed. Only climbing out of bed for food, bathroom breaks, and the changing of their bandages. They had barely spoken full sentences in that time. If this was something they intended to do for the rest of the road trip, then to Hell with that.

Dean glanced at his rearview mirror. Tracee sat in the back with her knees lifted to hold the giant book in place while she read. Instead of choosing either the left or right side, she had sat comfortable in the middle. Probably still wore a seatbelt, too. Dean then looked to his right. Sam was asleep, the back of his head against the seat and mouth hanging open. His brother had drifted off less than an hour ago, and Tracee had told him to turn the music down to let him sleep. Well, she actually told him to shut it off. For the life of him, Dean did not understand how the tiny tank didn’t like rock music. Who didn’t like rock music? Still, he had obliged and turned the volume down low enough that it wouldn’t disturbed her reading or his brother’s sleeping. Sam’s snoring could be heard over the music.

It gave him an idea. Stifling a grin, Dean pulled a spoon from the cup holder. It had been there awhile, admittedly, but it would be great for his plan. Splitting his attention to the road and his brother, he carefully slid the plastic spoon in Sam’s mouth. To his utter glee, his brother did not wake up. Dean looked through his rearview and saw that Tracee had lowered her legs and was now staring with growing interest. Grinning widely now, he reached in his pocket and took out his cell phone. He flipped it open and brought up the camera option. After making sure there were no other cars on the road, he aimed his phone at Sam and snapped a picture of the start of his awesome idea.

Dean turned his head, eyeing the smile on Tracee’s face. She approved—he could tell. He would send her the picture later, and they could both tease Sam relentlessly for it. It would be awesome. Once his cell phone was safely tucked back into his pocket, he turned up the volume of the radio and obnoxiously began singing along. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Sam snap out of his slumber, realize something was in his mouth, and then spit and sputter, trying to removing the offensive plasticware. It took an iron will not to burst out laughing at the spectacle. Behind him, Tracee’s will had faltered and giggles could be heard even as Dean pretended to be innocent by singing along. After Sam successfully removed the spoon, he turned down the volume of the music, expression fixing into his standard Bitchface.

“ _Ha ha_ —very funny,” he grumbled, sitting up in his seat. Dean could no longer keep his chuckles to himself. A lingering grin remained on Tracee’s face as she closed her book.

“Sorry,” Dean said, though he was far from it. “Not a lot of scenery here in east Texas. Kinda gotta make your own.” Tracee snorted in amusement, and clamped a hand over her mouth to stifle more giggles. It did not work, and it caused Sam to turn his head and glare at her. Her giggles turned into full blown out laughter.

“I’m _so_ glad you think this is funny,” he huffed indignantly as he faced the road in front again. Though his tone had been sarcastic, a bit of a smile worked its way on his face. Already, Dean’s idea was working. “Anyway… We’re not gonna start that crap up again.”

“Start _what_ up?” he asked as though he didn’t already know. _Ah_ , the good ol’ days.

“The prank stuff!” Sam exclaimed, looking really annoyed. Dean almost scoffed. His brother was acting like he hadn’t enjoyed it. It had been a good outlet for when trips on the road had gotten boring. Hell, their dad had sometimes participated in their little prank wars. “I don’t want this to escalate! Like it _always_ does!”

“ _Shyeah_ , I wouldn’t want this to escalate to Nair in his shampoo again,” Tracee said, leaning forward.

“Ha! You told her that embarrassing tidbit, _baldy_?” Dean questioned with a laugh. Sam only crossed his arms, frowning.

“As long as my hair’s not involved, you just remember you started this,” he warned. Dean only chuckled. Tracee did as well. He suspected she laughed because of the hair comment. “Where are we, anyway?” Still grinning, he answered that they were hours outside of Richardson. Then he asked for info about the case they may or may not be working on. Sam snatched the paper from the dashboard in front of him. “Alright. About a month or two ago, this group of kids goes poking around in this local hunted house.”

“Haunted by what?” Dean asked.

“Apparently, a pretty misogynistic spirit. Legend goes it takes girls and strings them up in the rafters,” Sam answered.

“That sounds like a place _I_ don’t need to be,” Tracee commented.

“Don’t worry, Trace. It’ll go after Sammy first and leave you for last,” Dean reassured her.

“Hilarious,” Sam replied in a flat voice. “Anyway, this group of kids see the dead girl hanging in the cellar. By the time the cops got there, the body was gone, so they couldn’t ID the girl. So the cops say the kids were just yanking chains.”

“You sure the cops aren’t right?” Tracee asked. “Sounds like an elaborate prank call.”

“Maybe, but I read a couple of the kids’ firsthand accounts. They seemed pretty sincere.  
 Dean furrowed his brow, asking where he had read these accounts. “Well…” At his brother’s hesitation, he quirked a brow. “I knew we were gonna be passing through Texas, so… last night… _um_ …” He chuckled nervously. Obviously, his source had not been very credible. “I surfed some local… paranormal websites. And I found one.”

“And what’s it called?” Dean questioned, already dubious of the intel.

“… Hellhoundslair.com.”

“Oh my God.” Tracee leaned back in her seat and shook her head. “And here I thought it was just you two who liked to spill the big supernatural secret. There’s actually hunters out there who run websites?”

“Oh no, Trace, most of those websites wouldn’t know a ghost if bit them in the pursqueeter,” Dean informed her. “Real hunters aren’t stupid. We don’t go posting crap on the internet so any John Doe could go out and… and become a John Doe.”

“Pursqueeter…?” Tracee repeated, sounding just a bit offended by his word choice. As someone who liked words and languages, it probably did offend her. Dean merely turned to grin her at. She rolled her eyes and crossed her arms. “So is this a case? We’re going on this hunt?”

“Well, there’s no harm in checking it out,” Sam remarked. “Since we separated from dad, which by the way, I still think was a mistake-” Dean managed to keep his expression neutral, but on the inside annoyance formed. “-we’ve got nothing better to do. Might as well look for something to hunt in the meantime.” He slightly turned his head, focusing on their backseat passenger. “You… Are you up for this, Tracee?”

“… I’m fine,” she replied.

Both brothers exchanged a look. Not only had she hesitated, but it had also sounded as though she had been attempting to convince herself. So that was it then? Weeks later, and the encounter with the daeva still got to her. Sam must have come to the same conclusion. Dean frowned, hoping his idea worked for that, too. It wouldn’t do anyone any good if the tiny Slayer wasn’t feeling too good about going against the supernatural. “Alright, so where do we find these kids?” he asked. Sam sighed heavily.

“The same place you always find kids in a rural town like this,” he answered.

 

0-0

 

A few hours later, the three had arrived in Richardson, Texas. After speaking with the three kids that had been to the haunted house, they were able to obtain only one viable and consistent piece of information. The kids had been taken to the house by their friend, Craig. They had told them where he worked, but not where he lived. Unfortunately, Craig had not been working tonight, and so they were now waiting for food to be delivered at Wyeth’s Western Inn. Well, Dean was singing in the shower at the moment, leaving Sam and Tracee to wait for the food.

At the moment, though, Tracee was rifling through her large red bag. It appeared that she was becoming increasingly frustrated. Once again, Sam looked up from his laptop to watch her search. She usually kept her books in the trunk of the car, and her clothes had already been put away, so he wondered what exactly she was searching for. It had been a good five minutes since she had started. Finally, Sam asked what she was looking for. “My cute little bottle of hot sauce,” she huffed. “I could have sworn I put it in here…”

“Oh…!” Of course. Tracee liked putting hot sauce, instead of soy sauce, on her chicken fried rice. Sam had tried it, and didn’t like it. Dean had tried it, too, said it wasn’t that bad, and then tried to eat the rest of his fried rice like that. It had been a mistake because he had ended up screaming that his mouth had been on fire. He had guzzled several of Tracee’s yogurts. She had called them both weak. “I have it,” Sam told her, getting up from his seat.

“Why do you have it?” Tracee questioned, following him over to his own bag. “You don’t even like hot sauce.”

“While you were outside, getting drinks from the vending machine, I snuck into the bathroom and laced Dean’s toothbrush with it,” Sam told her. How sweet his retribution would be. Beside him, Tracee winced. He only chuckled as he sifted through his bag to get the bottle of hot sauce. “I know, but that spoon had hair on it… along with whatever remnant of food it was used for.”

“I see,” Tracee said, slight laugh in her words. “ _You’re_ the reason it always escalates, aren’t you?”

Sam merely shrugged as he gave her the bottle. She murmured her thanks, and then left his side to set the hot sauce on the table next to the drinks she had gotten. “So, _um_ , hey…” He cleared his throat. “You have any more of that Vaseline?” She turned to face him, eyebrows scrunching together. “It’s healed,” he assured her. “But my skin feels a little tight, so… I was just wondering.”

“I have some left over,” Tracee replied. She headed towards her bag again. “How long have you felt the tightness?”

“Just recently. It’s a little itchy, too,” Sam said. “I’m hoping repeated use will clear that up.” She hummed lightly as she pulled out the plastic container.

“Sit on the bed,” Tracee instructed, standing to her full height. Sam nodded, eagerly following her instruction. Admittedly, his face felt fine. There were no after effects of having his face clawed into. She had done a good job tending to the marks left behind by the daeva. It had been the way she had tended to his face that made him eager for another treatment. And if he had to tell a small lie about his condition to get it, then… that should be fine, right? “It’s probably just the dry skin.” Tracee popped the cap off as she moved towards him.

Without preamble, she sat down sideways on his lap. Because of the huge height difference, these were the positions they had normally taken when she had worked with his face. It was easier, and comfortable, for her to reach every part of his face that she had needed to. With Dean, she hadn’t needed to. So, this was normal, and Sam had enjoyed every second of it. Even when she had cleaned the injury with a saline solution. To be fair, it hadn’t actually burned, but he had had enough experience with rubbing alcohol and hydrogen peroxide to be fretful about the stuff.

Tracee held the container between her thighs and scooped out a bit of Vaseline with two fingers. Sam shut his eyes and sighed lightly, anticipating the touch of her warm fingertips and the cool jelly. The combination made him shudder. “ _Shyeah_ , it’s all healed up,” she muttered, finally applying the Vaseline. Sam held back a satisfied groan. “Just needs a little moisture to stop the itch. I thought I used plenty before we left the last motel… I wonder if Dean is experiencing it as well.”

“Don’t worry about him,” Sam told her. His hand lifted to palm the small of her back. His other hand rested near her knee. “He’s got thick skin.” Tracee gave an amused snort. Amusement had been something she had lacked during their healing weeks. On the way to Richardson had been the first time after Chicago that he had seen and heard her laughter. It had, more or less, been the reason he had decided to participate in this inane prank war with Dean. It would make her laugh, so he was all for it.

What had happened in Chicago had been pretty traumatizing. For all of them. And most likely for different reasons. His brother had put up a nice front, but Sam could tell seeing their dad again, and then having him leave so soon after had Dean feeling melancholy. He would never admit it, though. With Tracee, although her first encounter with the daeva had been impressive, she had fallen victim to the second encounter. She had been terrified. Sam, himself, had been terrified for her. Seeing her helpless and getting clawed at had felt like a punch to the gut. Some sort of weird adrenaline had worked through his body and… he had willed the dresser to knock the daeva away from her.

That had been traumatizing. It meant that his powers were growing. First visions, and then telekinesis like Max Miller. Sam felt like what had happened wouldn’t be the end of it. During the weeks that followed Chicago, most of his thoughts centered on that dresser moving just because he had willed it. It had been the reason he had been so quiet. Eventually, though, he would have to tell them about it. For now, though, he would enjoy being tended to.

Sam opened his eyes to find Tracee completely focused on her task. When she did this, she became unaware of his staring. At least, he thought she did. She had never given any indication of feeling his eyes on her. Smiling a little, he moved his hand and dipped two fingers into the Vaseline in between her knees. Scooping some out, he lifted his coated fingers to her neck. Tracee barely flinched as his fingers slide from her neck to her cheek, tracing the memorized would be claw marks. Her fingers stilled against his cheek and her deep brown gaze finally shifted to his eyes. “Thank you,” she murmured, tilting her head to stretch her neck. It gave him more access to rub the petroleum jelly on her skin. Sam absentmindedly nodded, not tearing his eyes away from hers.

This was… a lot more intimate than sharing the same bed. He couldn’t help to like this closeness he shared with Tracee. Sam wondered how long he would be able to use the excuse of the lasting effects of the injury before it wouldn’t work anymore. Then he would have to find another reason probably. He didn’t want to keep lying, no matter how small the lie was. “Tracee…?” he called her name. She blinked twice, seemingly coming back to whatever daze she might have been in. “I’m, _uh_ , really glad… you’re here.” She furrowed her brow, expression morphing into confusion. Then it shifted again, face relaxing as understanding filled her eyes.

“Prove it to me,” she replied. Sam blinked. _Prove_ …? What did she-? Tracee suddenly moved her hand from his cheek to his chest. The familiar touch had him remembering _things_. Good things. _Desired_ things. Her fingers slid down, and heat rushed to his face. She leaned forward, pressing her forehead against his. Was this…? Could she _want_ -?

Then the moment was broken by the sound of knocking at the door. Tracee huffed lightly as she removed her hand from his person. Sam felt the same annoyance at the interruption. The knocking came again, causing Tracee to slip from his lap, taking the container with her. “I’ll get it,” he told her, standing from the bed. Frowning deeply, he twisted the knob and opened the door. He tried hard not glare at the delivery guy. Behind him, he heard Tracee knocking on the bathroom door and telling Dean that the food had arrived. Food and money were exchanged, not even taking a moment for pleasantries before the door was shut and the delivery man sent on his way.

Sam carried the bag of Chinese food to the table and began unloading the many containers. Chicken fried rice. Egg rolls. Pot stickers. Sweet and sour chicken. White rice. Pork Lo Mein. And all that was just for Tracee. Sometimes, she would share her food, but more often than not, she would eat all by herself. Dean came out of the bathroom, hair still wet, just as Sam placed the last container of food on the table. “Awesome…!” Dean remarked, going for one of the containers. “You gonna let me have some pot stickers?”

“You can have _one_ egg roll,” Tracee told him as Sam handed her chopsticks. He and his brother usually ate their Chinese food with plastic forks. Not her. Because _when in Rome_ , as she liked to say. “Thanks.” She sat down, preparing to eat. Dean visibly pouted as he scooted a chair over to the table. After discarding the plastic bag, Sam, too, sat down to eat. “So what’s the plan for tomorrow?” Tracee asked, breaking apart the wooden chopsticks.

“Well, we’re going to talk to this Craig kid. Get the full story about the haunting and maybe find out where he heard it in the first place,” Sam answered.

“Gonna go to the haunted house afterwards,” Dean continued, and then bit into an egg roll. “See if there’s actually any signs of a haunting in the first place. If we can’t find anything, we’ll look into confirming the story about the house. Maybe get better details about the dead girl from the police station. We’ll split up for that.”

“And if we still can’t find anything?” Tracee questioned.

“Then it’s not a job,” Dean stated. “At least not for us, and we move on to the next.” Tracee nodded her head in understanding. For several minutes, the three ate their meal in silence. Occasionally, Dean would attempt to steal a bit of Tracee’s food. She only warded away his attempts with practiced ease with her chopsticks. “ _Urgh_!” he finally groaned after his last failed attempt. Sam shook his head as Tracee stuck her tongue out at his brother. “How are you so good with chopsticks?!”

“It’s not rocket science,” she replied with a shrug. Dean shot her an annoyed look to which she merely grinned. Using said chopsticks, she shoved a pot sticker in his mouth.

“Thanks,” he said through a mouth full of food. He swallowed, and then cleared his throat. “Speaking of thanks… I never got a chance to thank you.”

“What for?” Tracee asked, and then, quite noisily, slurped the noodles of her dish into her mouth. She seemed very much enthralled with the taste. From the way she moaned, it was obviously she enjoyed her food. Sam had to stop himself from chuckling. He looked to his brother, wondering what was on his mind.

“You know… for Chicago,” Dean continued. Immediately, Tracee stilled. Sam’s eyes expanded, stunned that his brother would bring that subject up. Couldn’t he tell it was too soon? “You were awesome against the daeva… the first time.” It took a lot of willpower not to kick his brother under the table. Tracee’s shoulders relaxed, but the slight downturn of the corner of her lips had been seen. Clearly, she was still upset about what happened. She… probably hadn’t worked through the ordeal yet. Well, she certainly hadn’t spoken about it. “The second time wasn’t so good, but don’t let that get you down,” Dean continued, unaware of the shift in the atmosphere. “You did good, so, _uh_ … good job.”

For several long moments, only silence had been her response. Dean had finally realized the topic of choice hadn’t been great for dinner conversation because his reassuring grin had faded the longer the silence went on. Finally, Tracee pressed her lips together and shut her eyes. She visibly swallowed before opening her mouth to speak. “I’m fine,” she said. And just like before, it was obviously not true. “And you’re welcome.” She breathed in deeply before releasing. Then she began eating again. Unfortunately, the atmosphere did not shift from its awkward and tense state.

Sam narrowed his eyes at his brother, who shrugged helplessly. The rest of their meal continued and ended in silence. Once done, Tracee stood up, gathering and stacking the empty containers. Without words, she left the table to throw away the trash. Both brothers watched as she climbed into bed, muttering a quiet ‘Goodnight’ as she slid the covers over her body. The younger Winchester inaudibly sighed. He doubted she would be in a good mood tomorrow. Dean sighed out loud before he stood from the table. He downed the last of his soda, and then tossed it at the already full trashcan. Of course, the can bounced off and clattered to the floor. His brother paid no mind. He, instead, went to the bathroom. He didn’t shut the door behind him.

Cautiously, Sam made his way over to their bed. He flipped the light switch before sliding into bed with her. Tracee barely moved as he wrapped his arms around her. It was then he realized that her body hadn’t been as relaxed as he had previously believed. She was a bit rigid. No amount of rubbing her arms got her to calm her body. “Tracee… I’ve got you. It’s okay.” She didn’t reply to him with words, but she did turn her body to face his. She pressed her forehead against his chest and curled her fingers around his shirt. She still wasn’t completely at ease, though.

A yelp suddenly came from the bathroom, along with a cry of ‘Oh, you _bitch_!’ Dean’s outrage caused Sam to remember what he had done to his brother’s toothbrush. A snort came from Tracee, which made him grin. He lifted his head, looking towards the bathroom. “Right back at you, _jerk_!” he yelled. Tracee’s body shook, and then muffled giggles escaped her mouth. Sam settled back down, glad his little prank on his brother had caused her to laugh. Maybe she wouldn’t be in a bad mood tomorrow, after all. Finally, her body completely relaxed.

“You guys are _dorks_ ,” Tracee chuckled.

 

0-0

 

And so the shenanigans of the Winchester brothers continued. Dean had awakened Tracee the next morning, holding a can of whipped cream. The silly man must have gotten up early to head to the store for it. He had silently told her to keep quiet and had guided her out of her bed. Then he had proceeded to spray the whipped cream in his brother’s hand. A few tickles to the nose later, and Sam had a face full of the sweet substance. Oh, the rage Sam had had been palpable. It had caused roars of laughter between both Dean and Tracee, though. It had been a classic.

Even now, the thought of Sam’s face covered with whipped cream had her chuckling. He kept giving her suspicious looks as they walked to their destination. As though he couldn’t decide what her grins were for. So cute… Anyway, the three of them had gotten the history behind the haunted house from Craig, a squirrely boy with penchant for writing, after they had found him at his part-time job. Tracee had gotten most of the story. Other parts had been missed due to Dean shoving random records in her face, and asking her to ‘try it.’ She had had to push him away several times. In the end, they learned that Craig had learned the story from his cousin, who unfortunately was away at college at the moment.

Now, as Dean had planned, they were on their way to the haunted house. The squishy sound of their shoes hitting the mud caused Tracee to cringe. She should not have worn her converses today. Had it even rained last night? As they approached the house in question, Dean pulled out the EMF from the inside of his jacket. Tracee stared in curiosity as Sam left to explore the outside of the house. Honestly, she hadn’t had the chance to fiddle with the device. Apparently, it could pick up signatures of a ghostly variety. Dean had told her the contraption came in handy quite a lot in this life, but judging by his current expression, it wouldn’t be much help this go around.

Finally, the older Winchester almost viciously tapped on the EMF. He appeared quite annoyed. Sam came over, slipping on a bit on mud. Tracee held back a chuckle because the tall man apparently was going to pretend he hadn’t almost fallen. “EMF’s no good,” Dean announced. He gestured to the nearby power line. “I think that thing still has a little juice in it. It’s screwing with all the readings.” He put the device in his pocket. Tracee frowned and narrowed her eyes. So it was the old fashion way, was it? She wondered if she would be able to sense anything. Ghosts were different from demons… weren’t they? “Come on—let’s go,” Dean continued, heading towards the front door.

Taking a silent deep breath, Tracee followed the brothers into the abandoned house. It was even creepier on the inside, defaced with symbols, candles, and other sorts of weird things. “Are… Are those _chicken_ feet?” she questioned with a grimace. “Take me away from this place…” Dean chuckled at her obvious discomfort as he looked around. He did not see the scowl being directed his way. He whistled, turning to get a wide view of the room.

“Looks like old man Murdock was a bit of a tagger in his time,” he commented. His words may have been sarcastic, but Tracee felt it a bit strange that a man in the 1930s would use _spray paint_.

“… And _after_ his time, too,” Sam muttered distractedly. He had pulled out his cell phone to take a picture of a particular symbol. “The reverse cross has been used by Satanists for centuries but this sigil didn’t show up in San Francisco until the ‘60s.”

“Interesting…” Tracee commented. She pressed her lower lip between her thumb and forefinger. From what she knew about ghosts, they tended to be stuck in their own time, seemingly remaining unaware of the change around them. First the spray paint, and then a break in their timeline… This was beginning to feel like a ruse. Beside her, Dean scoffed, bringing her from her musings.

“That’s not interesting,” he retorted. “ _That’s_ the reason he never gets laid.”

Tracee grinned cheekily, knowing quite differently. “Please,” she said, letting out a chuckle. “That could be the exact reason he _does_.” Her grin grew, hearing the tall man sputter. The flush to his cheeks made her want to continue teasing. “Intelligence can be _very_ sexy. Most women appreciate that. Don’t they, Samuel?” She raised her eyebrows at him, taking joy in the way his eyes darkened.

“Only the impressive ones,” Sam replied, a bit of a smirk on his face. He understood her implication, and her own cheeks grew warm in response. Dean scoffed again, oblivious to the crackling air between herself and his brother.

“You point me in the direction of a hot girl with a thing for nerds, and I’ll start reading more,” he said. Tracee tore her gaze away from Sam and stared at the other brother.

“Isn’t that what happened with you and Cassie?” she questioned.

“Shut up!” Dean countered. “Whatever she said, it never happened!” Tracee only giggled at his discomfort. Cassie had told her lots of things about Dean Winchester. Most would make him curl into a ball of embarrassed denial. After shooting her a suspicious look—his looked just like Sam’s—the older brother turned away to stare at another strange symbol on the side of the staircase. “Hey, you ever see this one before?” he asked, tilting his head to the side. Tracee shifted her gaze to the symbol that had distracted Dean.

“Nope,” she answered.

“No,” Sam walked over, holding his cell phone to take a picture of it.

“I have… somewhere…” Dean murmured. Sam reached out to touch the red symbol. He announced that it was paint. All the symbols in the house were probably just paint. The older Winchester sighed, turning away. Obviously, he couldn’t remember where he had seen the symbol previously. “I don’t know, Sam. I hate to agree with authority figures of any kind, but the cops might be right about this one.”

“Yeah. Maybe.”

Sam seemed just a little disappointed. Still, he lifted his phone again to take more pictures. Supposedly, he wanted a distraction. Tracee scratched her neck. Perhaps they all did. A sudden noise reached her ears. It sounded as though something had fallen in the next room. Tensing, she noticed the two brothers became alert, looking towards where the sound came from. Quietly, they all headed in the direction of the noise. It didn’t come again, but it had come from the other side of a closed door. Dean and Sam stood on either side. The oldest nodded his head in her direction, a signal. Nodding back, Tracee lifted her foot and kicked the door open. Probably should be more cautious with a deteriorating building, but to be honest, she enjoyed kicking doors in.

Flashing lights are what greeted them. Temporarily, she was blinded by the light and held her hands up as a shield. “Cut!” A man’s voice caught her attention. Blinking the dark spots away, her gaze fell on two men. One held a camera. Another held a very large flashlight. It took only a moment to realize what she had walked in on. Stifling a groan, but not the eye roll, Tracee felt Dean and Sam come to stand on either side of her. “Just a couple of humans!” The curly-haired man with the glasses sounded as annoyed and disappointed as she felt.

“My sentiments exactly,” she muttered, crossing her arms.

“What are you guys doing here?” The dark-haired man, clearly relieved, lowered and turned off the giant flashlight. He seemed the skittish type for certain.

“What the _hell_ are you doing here?” Dean demanded to know.

“ _Uh_ , we _belong_ here. We’re professionals,” the man with the glasses scoffed as though it were obvious. Tracee stared blankly at the duo. It seemed that Dean and Sam were at a loss of words as well. “ _Paranormal_ investigators! God—they must be idiots!” The arrogant man dug into his jacket pocket. He pulled out… business cards. Brown eyes looked upward, silently asking the Lord to give her strength. These were clearly the ‘John Does’ Dean had been referring to on the way in. He handed them each a card. “Here you go. Take a look at that, boys… And _lady_.” His eyes lingered longer than necessary on her person. Apparently, he had just taken notice of her gender. Fun times.

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” Dean sneered. It prompted Tracee to take a look at the card in her hand.

“Ed Zeddmore and Harry Spengler,” Sam read out loud just as her eyes scanned over the words. “Hellhoundslair.com… You guys run that website.”

“Yeah,” the one with the glasses confirmed. Dean stepped further into the room, sarcastically commenting that they were all huge fans. “And we know who you guys are, too.”

“Doubtful,” Tracee snorted lightly.

“You’re amateurs,” he continued, seemingly ignoring her. “Looking for ghosts and cheap thrills.”

At this point, Tracee stopped listening. It was one thing to call her an idiot. It was an entirely other thing to call her an _amateur_. Especially when these fools were the amateurs. It annoyed her to no end. She crossed her arms, struggling to reign in the urge to slam the arrogant man against the wall. The longer she had to stand there, the more irritated she became. Then the man stated he had never actually seen a ghost, but _heard_ one. It had _changed_ him. “And I’m _done_ ,” Tracee declared. “There’s only so much _irony_ I can take. Let’s go.” Dean nodded his head in agreement, so they all left the professionals to their _work_.

A little over an hour later, Tracee found herself walking beside the older Winchester. They had gone to the police station, only to leave with nothing concrete about this particular case. None of the descriptions the three teenagers had made had matched any missing person’s report. Her disappointment may have been visibly, and so Dean had taken her for ice cream. He was so nice. He was almost finished with his soft serve chocolate cone. Tracee still had about a scoop left in her paper cup. Cherry cheesecake ice cream. _So_ good. It even had the graham cracker crumbs. With cherry syrup drizzled on. She may have moaned loudly a few times. Dean only shook his head at her shenanigans.

They walked down the sidewalk, planning on waiting for Sam in the Impala. However, just as they were passing the library, the younger Winchester pushed the door open and hurried to meet them. “Hey,” he greeted. Then he wrinkled his brow. “You got ice cream?” Tracee smiled at him and nodded. She stuck the plastic spoon full of goodness in his mouth, and he readily accepted her gift. Sam stood straight again, licking his lower lip. “Oh, that’s good,” he stated. Tracee nodded again, devouring more of her delicious treat. “But isn’t it a little too chilly for ice cream?”

“Just for that, you’re not getting anymore.” She held her cup protectively against her chest. Sam grinned at her. Despite the cold, Tracee felt slivers of heat rush to her face. “What’d you bring me?” Hopefully, she hadn’t sounded as breathless as she thought.

“Well, I couldn’t find a Mordechai, but I did turn up a Martin Murdock who lived in that house in the ‘30s.” Sam showed her the notes he had written down as the three of them began to walk to the car. “He did have children, but only two of them—both boys. And there’s no record of him having killed anyone.”

“ _Huh_.” Dean couldn’t even give an opinion, but Tracee huffed in disappointment. After finishing off his cone, he explained that they had gotten nothing from the police station either. “Which is why I had to get this one-” He gestured to her. “-a snack so she wouldn’t turn into a brat.” Tracee merely shrugged. He was right, of course. They had made it to the Impala. Dean had gone over to the driver’s side. “We did our digging. This one’s a bust. For all we know, those hell hound guys made up the whole thing.” Sam sighed, but agreed with the assessment. “I say we find a bar and some beer, and leave the legend to the locals.” He got into the car and shut the door.

Tracee blinked. Not that she had gotten used to it—okay, she pretty much had—but Sam usually opened the back door for her. This time, he only stood there, lips twitching in an obvious attempt to stifle a grin. Looks like she was in for more Winchester mischief. Sam leaned forward a bit, watching his brother put the key in the ignition. Tracee leaned forward as well, waiting for whatever may come. Once the key turned, loud music—Spanish, by the sounds of it—blared through the speakers. Completely caught off guard, Dean _squealed_ in surprised. Actually squealed.

Watching it happened, Tracee couldn’t control her laughter from bursting from her mouth. Dean had looked so panicked. He attempted to shut off the radio, but the windshield wipers came on. “What the…?!” Dean finally managed to return his vehicle to normal. Tracee managed to control her obnoxious laugh, but giggles slipped through. Laughing himself, Sam opened her door. She slipped in just as he opened his own door. Dean now sported quite the familiar Bitchface. “You… That’s all you got?” He sounded quite annoyed. “That’s weak— _bush_ -league!”

“Actually, that was quite clever,” Tracee commented.

“Shut up, Trace!”

“Oh, he’s _so_ mad,” she said, grinning widely. “Nice one, Samuel.”

“Shut up,” Dean repeated as Sam laughed beside him.

 

0-0

 

A girl had died.

In the haunted house. The police had said it had been suicide, but Sam knew better. Dean knew better. Tracee knew better. Just as they had been about to leave, they had heard the news, which had prompted them to stay in Richardson. They had waited until nightfall before going to the house again. However, it was being watched by police. Sam squinted through the cover of branches that shielded Dean, Tracee, and himself from sight. They were prepared, but this obstacle would be tough to get by.

“I could knock them unconscious,” Tracee suggested in a whisper.

“ _Nah_ , we need them gone just in case we have to leave in a hurry,” Dean whispered back. “They might not be out for as long as we need. Then they’ll probably double the patrol.” He breathed in deeply through his nose. Then he turned his eyes away from the policemen. “You hear that…?” Now that his brother mentioned it, Sam was hearing whispers that had not belonged to any of them. He turned around, spotting the two they had met earlier. Ed and Harry were their names. The two were covered in gadgets. Sam snorted lightly, watching them fumble in the dark. God, he hoped he hadn’t been that bad his first time on a job. It was doubtful any hunter could be that bad. “I’ve got an idea,” Dean stated. He cupped a hand over his mouth. “Who ya gonna call?!” His shout alerted the cops to their location, but since the dynamic duo were so easily spotted, they had been the ones targeted.

“Hey! You!”

Their perfect distractions were chased by the police, giving them the access they needed. Tracee chortled as she followed after Dean, who was making his way over to the house. “You and Cassie, I swear…” she muttered, nudging his brother’s arm. “I wonder which one of you came first.”

“Oh, she came first—definitely,” Dean replied, leering. Tracee’s face twisted into a cringe.

“ _Ugh_! That is not what I meant! You little _nasty_!” she hissed. Dean only grinned. Once they were inside, Sam set the bag he carried on the floor and took out the sawed off shotgun. He handed it to his brother. Then he pulled out a shotgun for himself. Tracee had slipped her sword through a belt loop on her right side. Already, her hand was ready to pull it from its wooden sheath at a moment’s notice. “If that song gets into my head…”

“It’ll be your own fault, now come on!” Dean muttered. He flashed his light on the side of the stairs. “Where have a seen that symbol before? It’s killing me!”

“We don’t have much time to figure it out,” Sam stated. “Let’s go…” The three headed towards the basement. The girl had been strung up in the basement, so more than likely, that would be where they would find something. Once they hit the bottom, they began searching for anything suspicious. Admittedly, Sam’s eyes drifted to Tracee more than a few times. He felt bad about the girl dying. Really, he did, but… It seemed to be turning into another job, and that had been what he had wanted. A chance for Tracee to experience the life without something as dangerous as demons or the daeva. Just a ghost. Ghosts were easy. They wouldn’t leave her in tears, at least.

“Hey, Sam?” Dean caught his attention. His gazed shifted to his brother, who was holding up a mason jar. Because Dean was holding the light to it, he could see a very pale red liquid inside. “I dare you to take a swig of this.” Sam only stared. Drinking an unknown substance that had been in an abandoned, possibly haunted house, would never seem like a good idea. His brother was an idiot.

“The _hell_ would I do that for?” Sam questioned, and then rolled his eyes, focusing on something other than his brother’s inane dare.

“… I _double_ dare you,” Dean replied as if that would incite him to poison himself.

“ _Ooh_ , he double dared you—you’ve got to do it,” Tracee remarked. She didn’t appear to be paying attention to them. At least not with her eyes. She was still searching the small basement, hand still gripping the hilt of her sword.

“Oh yeah…? And what if I triple dog dared _you_?” Sam asked.

“Judas…!” she gasped dramatically in response.

Sam chuckled lightly, glad that she wasn’t as tense as he had expected. Admittedly, he had been worried. It was clear that what had happened with the daeva had had an adverse effect on her. Fortunately, the impact hadn’t been so large. At least… he hoped it wasn’t large enough to make her walk away. He wondered what had made her stay after that. Tracee cared. He knew that for certain, but… she could have walked away after Dean and himself had completely healed. Instead, she had packed up with them, and without saying a word, agreed to continue traveling with them. It had been a pleasant wonder. Anyone else would have walked. Hell, _ran_ even. Whatever her reason, Sam hoped it was enough. Then he could give her another reason to stay.

Suddenly, a faint noise broke the silence. It sounded like scraping. Scraping usually meant a _sign_. Dean, having heard it, too, moved towards where the noise had come from. Sam followed, vaguely feeling Tracee trailing after him. She moved to Dean’s side, watching the partially open cupboard. Sam swallowed, reaching for the opening. Dean gripped his gun, aiming it at the cupboard. Then he nodded, silently telling him that he was ready and to open the doors. Instead of something supernatural dashing out, it was only rats. Big, squeaking rats. A few ran out, causing Dean to lift his feet so they could pass him.

“ _Ugh_! I hate rats!” he groused, sounding just as disgusted as he looked. Sam shifted his attention to Tracee. She had visibly relaxed. She had even removed her hand from her weapon of choice. It was a good sign, he thought. Satisfied that Tracee hadn’t been thrown off by the rats, he turned back to his brother.

“What? You’d rather it be a ghost?” Sam questioned.

“Yes…!”

Tracee abruptly took a sharp breath, drawing his attention. In the next second, she yanked on Dean’s jacket, pulling him to her side. The swing of an axe had just barely missed his brother. Sam’s body tensed, realizing that the spirit of Mordechai had appeared and had almost killed Dean. Immediately, he lifted his shotgun and fired. The rock salt did _nothing_. The spirit raised his axe again, aiming for his brother. Sam fired again. The spirit didn’t glance at him. Finally, Dean shook off his stupor and fired off his own weapon. Mordechai seemed to vaporize and disappear with the third shot.

“What the hell kinda spirit is immune to rock salt?!” Sam questioned out loud. Ghosts were supposed to be _easy_. This, Mordechai, apparently wasn’t _just_ a ghost. And they had come unprepared for that.

“I don’t know!” Dean exclaimed, just as surprised.

“It’s still here!” Tracee hissed in a whisper.

“Alright! Come on! Come on!” Dean quickly ushered them both towards the stairs. He must have realized the predicament as well. “Shit!” Sam turned around just before his foot hit the second step. Mordechai had his brother pinned on top of the knocked over shelves. Dean was struggling to keep the axe from coming down with his flashlight. Heart hammering against his chest, Sam reloaded his shotgun and fired. Like before, the blast did nothing.

“Damn it!” He rushed pass Tracee and struck Mordechai with the butt of his shotgun. The spirit didn’t recoil, but the strike had provided a distraction for his brother. Dean hurriedly fired off a round of iron, causing the spirit to vanish again. Hurriedly, Sam helped Dean to his feet, and then they ran like Hell was on their heels. Salt hadn’t worked. Iron hadn’t done the trick. What the hell were they up against?

Not pausing to open the front door, Tracee barreled right through, taking the door right off the hinges. Sam only briefly wondered how physically strong the tiny woman was. Briefly because he had collided someone, knocking them all to the ground. He stumbled to get up and follow after Tracee, giving a half-hearted warning to whoever he had run into. He ran and ran, but he had lost sight of her. She had been moving too fast for him or Dean to keep up.

By the time they had reached the Impala, both brothers were panting heavily, attempting to catch their breaths. Dean leaned over the hood of the car and squeezed his eyes shut. Sam pretty much did the same except his eyes weren’t closed. He almost frantically searched for any sign of Tracee. Seconds went by, and as if on cue, she stumbled from behind a tree, wiping the corner of her mouth with the sleeve of her denim jacket. The implication of the image had him reeling. Had she just-? “Tracee…!” Sam took a step towards her, but she sharply lifted her hand in a gesture for him to stop.

“Let’s just _go_ ,” she croaked. Her voice had been raw and scratchy. She moved towards the car, and he could see the trembling of her body. Damn it. What was supposed to be an easy job had turned out to be enough to cause an adverse effect on Tracee. Sam wanted to reach for her. Wanted to pull her close and stop any tears from falling, but she brushed pass him like he wasn’t standing there. This was not how things should have gone.

“Damn it,” Sam muttered to himself, watching Tracee open the back door of the Impala and slide in.

 


	12. Mischief

The car ride back to the motel had been a quiet and tense one. He didn’t think Dean had seen what Sam had seen, but he, too, had been silent. When they had finally reached their motel room, Tracee had immediately gone into the bathroom and shut the door behind her. It had left Sam feeling disappointed. He had wanted to immediately reassure her, but it seemed as though he wouldn’t get the chance.

Fifteen minutes later, and Tracee still had not emerged from the bathroom. Sam sighed lightly. He had been pretending to read an old lore book. His head, though, was fill with anxiety—not just of the job, but of Tracee, too. Mostly of Tracee. Had what happened been too much? Would she walk away from all this? Would she just be gone one morning? Sighing again, Sam leaned back in his chair. So much for easy. Pretending wasn’t getting him anywhere. Despite his thoughts of Tracee, they still needed to figure out what exactly they were dealing with. He glanced behind him. Dean was sitting up in bed, doodling on the notepad provided by the motel. His brother wasn’t going to be of assistance. Not with the ghost-like Mordechai, anyway.

The soft click of the bathroom door opening drew his attention. Tentatively, Tracee stepped out, expression soft and gaze focused on the floor. She didn’t appeared agitated or haggard anymore. But that look on her face… She looked hesitant. Her fingers lifted to scratch at her neck. Sam had learned it was a nervous tick. Even if the nervousness didn’t appear on her face. She had removed her jacket, leaving her in her long-sleeved pale blue shirt and jeans. Her shoes and socks had been taken off as well. “Hey,” he greeted lightly as though she hadn’t locked herself in the bathroom. Tracee acknowledged his greeting with a glance in his direction and a simple nod. It was something, at least.

“Dean…?” she softly spoke his brother’s name, prompting Sam to turn his head in his direction. Dean had been looking her way, too, possibly as soon as she had come from the bathroom.

“Yeah?”

“I’m… sorry about what happened tonight,” Tracee apologized.

“What are you doing that for?” Dean questioned.

“Because I…” She wrung her hands together in front of her. “Because I didn’t save you.”

“What? Come on, Trace. There was no harm done. Besides, Sammy took care of-”

“No,” Tracee cut him off. Her arms fell to her sides. “I didn’t say I couldn’t save you. I said I _didn’t_. In the short time it took for Samuel to realize you were in trouble, I could have saved you five different ways. At least. But I didn’t. I just stood there… frozen… with fear.” Sam knew it. The spirit of Mordecai had scared her after all. He had hoped… He had hoped for a lot of things, but hope was a feeble thing compared to reality. “I just stood there and watched. My body was afraid. I’ve never been hurt physically before… so the daeva… they took away my confidence. When I watched you in danger tonight, even though my mind told me to do one thing, I… I just stood still. I’m sorry.”

“… Trace… Look, no one starts off a pro. I mean, even I didn’t come out swinging, and I’m a badass.” Dean’s attempt at humor did not garner even a crack of a smile. “Don’t let tonight get you down. Or the daeva. You-”

“They’ve _already_ gotten me down,” Tracee replied. “I am effected negatively by these encounters. I… am not acclimating to this life. What good am I to this life, to _you_ , if I am too scared to act?” She shook her head and closed her eyes. “This has to end.” Sam flinched, dreading what her next words could be. This was it, wasn’t it? She was going to leave. She was about to ask Dean to take her back to Ashland. His brother scooted to the foot of his bed, wearing a developing frown. Had he caught the signs of her leaving, too? Could he feel the same protests gnawing at his insides like Sam?

“What… What are you saying, Trace?” Dean asked.

Tracee reached up to scratch at the side of her neck again. Her eyes looked elsewhere for a moment. “Tomorrow… instead of working on the case, I want to…” she began. “I want to do the ritual.” It took a moment for her words to actually sink in. She… hadn’t wanted to leave? “I haven’t done it since I’ve started traveling with you two. I think it would give me my confidence back if I were to start practicing again.”

“The ritual…?” Dean repeated, sounding dumbfounded. It appeared that he had expected her to say something else as well. Sam released a heavy sigh of relief. He noticed the glance in his direction from Tracee, but she refocused on his brother. “You just want to _exercise_? You spent twenty minutes locked in the bathroom _brooding_ just to tell me you want to exercise?!”

“I wasn’t _brooding_!” Tracee’s indignant protest was equipped with a pout. Dean gave her a look. “Okay, maybe a little— _shut up_!” She crossed her arms. “ _Most_ of it was meditation to come to a solution for this problem I have. And I have it. The ritual will give me the confidence to face the supernatural again.”

“You could have _led_ with that part,” Dean said.

“I can’t just blurt something out without giving context,” she replied with a shrug. Then she uncrossed her arms. “Were you… thinking I was going to say something else?”

“I thought you wanted to leave.”

“… Oh.”

“Yeah. I know what you did behind that tree. I thought you had decided you weren’t cut out for this,” Dean stated. So he had noticed, after all. And he seemed to have been just as anxious as Sam had been.

“I suppose… I may have been a little misleading,” Tracee murmured. She took a few steps forward until she plopped down on the bed beside Dean. She pressed her arm against his. “I’ve already made my decision. I’m not going anywhere. I’m your Slayer without reservation.” She tilted her head, planting a light kiss to Dean’s cheek. “I’ve already made the jump into this life, so whether I fly or fall… I’ll be with you. Both of you.”

Sam watched his brother wrap an arm around her. A smile—definitely relieved—spread across his face. “That’s my girl,” Dean told her, hand lightly squeezing her shoulder. Tracee smiled prettily in return. Watching them, Sam couldn’t help the smile that formed on his own face. She was staying, and his brother was happy about it. Something about this was… familiar. He didn’t understand why, but it wasn’t an unpleasant familiarity. In fact, Sam liked it. Seeing Dean so comfortable with her was a good thing. Sam couldn’t remember his brother ever being so comfortable with another person. Except himself, of course. But he was the younger brother. Dean had to be comfortable with him by default. Tracee was another matter entirely.

“So what are you guys working on? Find any reason why we encountered a quasi-ghost?” Tracee questioned. “Or is something like that actually normal?”

“No way,” Dean said. “That’s why we high-tailed it outta there. An unprepared hunter is dead hunter.” Then he grinned at her. “Well, that’s why me and Sammy high-tailed it outta there.”

“Oh, you’ve got jokes already?” Tracee scoffed and stood up from the bed.

“What? Too soon?”

She merely rolled her eyes before shifting her line of sight to Sam. He cleared his throat, placing the book he had been holding behind his partially closed laptop. “There’s no lore that I’ve looked at that says ghosts are immune to salt. So either this is a new breed of spirit, which is highly unlikely, or it’s not really a ghost.”

“It’s weird that this… whatever it is… went after Dean with an axe, right?” Tracee questioned. “I was expecting it to come after me with rope to be honest.”

“Yeah, and you see those slit wrists?” Sam asked. The both of them nodded their heads. “What’s up with that? The legend says he hung himself, and ghosts are usually pretty strict, so-”

“So why exactly does his mood keep changing?” Dean cut in. Sam sighed as he opened his laptop. The browser for Hellshound was already pulled up. He clicked a few times to get to the actual legend.

“Okay, it says…” he blinked, not recognizing the words on the page. “Wait a minute…”

Dean made a small noise of inquiry, but most of his attention had shifted back to the notepad in his hand. Tracee walked over to him. She leaned forward, hand resting against his shoulder. “It’s a new post,” she murmured. “Now it says that Mordecai actually worshipped Satan and he chopped up his victims with an axe. It does not specify gender anymore. Apparently, he slit his own wrists and is now trapped in the house forever.” Her summary was clear and to the point. Tracee lightly scoffed. “The legend changes. Mordecai changes. Spirits can’t change their nature by outside influences, right?”

“Right,” Sam agreed. “This is bigger than we thought.”

“You hear that, Dean?” Tracee stood straight, sliding her hand from his shoulder. “Dean?” His brother made a vague grunt. He probably heard half of the summary of the new legend. Tracee walked back over to Dean and snatched the notepad from his hand. A disgruntled ‘Hey!’ came from his brother’s mouth as dark brown eyes studied whatever Dean had been scribbling. “I’ve seen this before…”

“What? You said you didn’t!” Dean stated.

“Not the one at the house. No, I mean, not at that angle,” she explained. She gave the notepad back to his brother, but upside down. “I’ve seen it before at this angle. I know because I remember thinking ‘That’s a weird question mark.’ Don’t remember where, but it had to be recent.”

“ _Ah_!” Dean let out a gasp. “I remember! And it also explains why Tracee knows the symbol, too!” He stood up and headed over to his jacket. “And I know exactly where all this must have started.”

“Well, don’t keep us in suspense,” Tracee muttered, crossing her arms. She sat down on his bed, taking his place. “Where’d we see the symbol?”

“At that records’ store. _Craig_.” Dean pulled a piece of paper out of his jacket pocket. “It was on one of the albums I was showing you. BOC.” Tracee’s expression remained unimpressed. She clearly did not know or care what BOC stood for. Dean frowned at her blatant indifference. “Think about it. Craig is the source of this story. Probably copied the symbol from the album. Which means most, if not all, are symbols from albums.”

“Are you saying he came up with all this?” Tracee asked.

“I’m saying it must have started with him,” Dean told her. His eyes scanned over the piece of paper in his hand. “He doesn’t work tonight, but he works tomorrow all day. I say we get the truth outta him and go from there.”

“How do you know his work schedule?” Sam questioned.

“Snuck a peek,” Dean shrugged, uncaringly. “Just in case.” Sam only shook his head. “Alright, _so_ …! Me and Sam will keep working on this job. Trace will do her ritual. And we meet up for dinner somewhere to review.”

“Yes, sir!” Tracee saluted. Dean grinned.

“You see that, Sammy? That’s how you’re supposed to respond.”

“Give it time,” Sam replied, rolling his eyes. Scowling just a bit, his brother headed into the bathroom. He shut the door behind him, leaving the two of them in silence. Tracee cleared her throat, drawing his attention.

“You didn’t… You didn’t think I was going to leave, did you?” she questioned.

“I was a little worried,” Sam admitted.

She frowned then. However slight, the corners of lips tugged downward. “Well, I’m sorry for worrying you,” Tracee remarked. Sam stood up from his chair and moved over to her. She didn’t take her eyes off of him. He sat down beside her, nudging her arm with his own. A slight chuckle escaped her lips. “I’m sure I’ll give you a better reason to worry somewhere down the line.” Finally, a smile touched her face. Sam couldn’t help but grin back.

“Yeah, I suppose you will,” he agreed. “I was… relieved to hear it, though. That you’re staying.”

“I meant it,” Tracee assured him. “All of it.”

“Oh yeah?” Sam looked away. “Prove it to me.”

“Prove it…?” she repeated. He nodded his head, and then tapped his left cheek with his index finger twice. She seemed to get the implication because she chuckled lightly. “Is that right?” Then she giggled again. “You are too much…” That did not stop her from leaning against him. Her lips pressed against his cheek, similar to the way she had kissed his brother. However, unlike her kiss for Dean, her lips touched closer to the corner of his mouth and lingered just a bit longer, too. “Happy…?” she asked, voice low and almost a purr. He could feel her breathe on his skin, and that excited him just as much as the chaste kiss.

Sam cleared his throat, turning his head a bit to face her. With a smile, he leaned towards her, only stopping when his forehead found hers. Tracee bit her lower lip, drawing his attention away from her dark brown eyes. He swallowed, pushing down memories of those lips against his own. For now. He gave a slight grin, rearing back. “Almost,” he told her. She scoffed, pouting just a bit when he didn’t further explain. “I’m sure… that it’ll change somewhere down the line.” She scoffed again, and then lightly shoved him. He laughed in response.

 

0-0

 

Turns out the legend was a bust. Craig and his cousin had made the whole thing up because they had been _bored_. A girl had died because they had been bored. Sure, the kid had been pretty beat up about it, but Dean couldn’t be sympathetic. Not now. Someone had died, and if they didn’t stop this false legend, more people would die. All because of boredom. Boredom should only ever lead to harmless innocent pranks that would affect only one person. Like itching powder sprinkled in someone’s underwear. That was a classic. But judging by Sam’s lingering Bitchface, he did not have the same sentiments.

Dean grinned to himself as he drove down the road. His brother had been sporting the same expression for a while now. Even after they had made the pit stop back at the motel so that Sam could change his underwear. Too bad Tracee hadn’t seen the genius of his latest prank. She had come with them to interrogate Craig, but after that she had left them to go about her exercises—her five hour ritual. That had left the brothers to their own devices. Whilst Sam had been researching what they were dealing with—a _Tulpa_ , of all things—Dean had been buying the itching powder.

They had just finished delivering the fake death certificate to those two idiots—Ed and Harry—so that the legend of Mordecai would work in their favor. With any luck, they’d kill the bastard tonight and leave this place behind. For now, though, they would have to wait for the certificate to post on that dumb website, and for the changes to take effect on the _Tulpa_. Dean glanced at his watch, noting the time. They had about an hour before Tracee would be finished with her ritual and head back to the motel. By the time she finished, it would shave off the waiting time. Then they could go get dinner, take on the changed Mordecai, and then leave. Hopefully, it would be enough for Tracee to get back on her feet.

A thought suddenly struck Dean. He blinked once, and then did an illegal U-turn to get on the road back downtown. Having not expected it, Sam yelped in surprise. Holding back a chuckle, Dean sped up. “What the hell are you doing?” his brother asked. The sharp turn must have jolted him from his thoughts. He never liked his thoughts being interrupted, after all.

“I have an awesome idea,” Dean told him. Sam only gave him a dubious look. “What?”

“I’m going to assume this has nothing to do with the job, so…”

“It doesn’t.”

“Then no.”

“Come on! You haven’t even heard it yet.” Sam crossed his arms and raised his eyebrows, waiting for him to continue. Somehow, he still looked as though he did not want to hear. Still looked like he was going to shoot it down. Frowning, Dean tried not to roll his eyes. “Okay, so… I think we should prank Trace.”

“No.” Sam’s immediate response came with the Bitchface. Although, he had expected the petulant reply, Dean still showed an incredulous expression. “Don’t look at me like that! Of all your _ideas_ , that’s the dumbest one I’ve heard so far. She can literally _break_ us! She gets mad, we’re dead!”

“ _Ouch_ …!” His brother ignored the pout Dean gave. “You’re thinking too small, Sammy.” Finding the store he had spied earlier, he pulled into the parking lot. Sam did not take his eyes off him. “Look—Trace needs to loosen up. She’s taking everything way too seriously, which is why her reaction was kinda bad. I want to show her that this life isn’t all fire and brimstone.”

“By _pranking_ her?”

“Well, yeah. It’ll be a fun time she can look back on and smile,” Dean explained. “If she’s involved with something as silly and little as a prank war, then she’ll feel closer to us, I think. She won’t leave.” Sam narrowed his eyes again, but it wasn’t a glare and it wasn’t the Bitchface. No. His eyes were calculating. Like the gears were turning in his head. Then a grin slowly crept on his face as though he had figured out a puzzle. “What?” Dean questioned, putting the Impala in park.

“You _like_ her,” Sam stated.

“What? No!” he replied before he could stop himself.

“Yeah… you _do_ ,” his brother persisted, grin growing. “You like her, and you don’t want her to leave anytime soon.”

“That’s because she’s an _asset_ ,” Dean said. That was the truth. The least of it, anyway. “A potentially really good one. Somewhere down the line, we’ll probably need her.”

“Right. An asset. Of course.” Sam made it fairly obvious that he didn’t believe the cover story. Stifling a groan, Dean opened the door to exit his vehicle. He saw his brother hurriedly do the same. “So I guess it’s normal to stay up late and watch movies with assets now?” Sam followed him into the store, apparently missing the eye roll.

“Well, if my brother wasn’t a lamebrain…” Dean muttered, to which said brother told him to shut up. “Just drop it, alright?” His eyes darted around the store, looking for a particle section. “The main point is to prank her.” Sam merely scoffed, shoving his hands into his jacket pockets. Finding what he was looking for, Dean headed down a couple aisles. It would be another classic prank. It would be awesome. Grinning widely, he outstretched his arm, showing the wide range of hair color dyes that filled the shelves. Sam, as though just noticing where they stood, sucked in a sharp breath.

“You want to _dye_ her hair?! That’s-! _No_!”

Disappointed by his reaction to his brilliant idea, Dean turned away from his sputtering brother and began to peruse different boxes of hair dye. “Come on, Sammy! Most of this stuff washes out—it’s harmless,” he told him, eyes scanning over the instructions of the box he held. “ _Hm_. Not that one.” He placed the box back on the shelf. Who would want to permanently dye their hair _orange_? “I’m thinking a bright red.”

“No—blue,” Sam said. While he was glad that his brother was giving input to this prank, Dean could tell this was about to turn into an argument. “A dark blue. So dark no one will be able to tell the difference.” Dean had a hard time not rolling his eyes.

“You’re missing the point of a good prank,” he said. “Let’s compromise. Red and blue makes purple, so let’s go with that.” Sam opened his mouth, a string of protests at the ready, but then he pursed his lips. A thoughtful expression had appeared on his face.

“Fine,” he relented, which was a bit surprising. “But I get to choose the shade.”

“ _Shade_ …?” Dean replied incredulously. Sam ignored him and walked further down the aisle. “What’s wrong with just purple?”

“There’s no such color as _just purple_ ,” he muttered, picking up a box. “There’s lilac, lavender—lighter shades that won’t work on her dark hair for a one time treatment. There’s plum, dark purple, royal purple. Oh, they have amethyst.” Sam quickly set down the box he had been holding and picked up another. His eyes scanned over the directions before he set it back down again. “And we have to make sure to find one that won’t stain her skin.”

“Trust you to know more than the primary colors,” Dean remarked, rolling his eyes. Sam chose to ignore him. He picked up various boxes, only to put them down again. Eventually, his brother found one that he didn’t put down right away. Sam tossed the box to him. “Violet black…?” Dean squinted at the model’s hair. “This isn’t gonna show, Sam.”

“It will—the longer you leave it in, the brighter it will be,” he stated. “Tracee leaves her conditioner in for about thirty minutes, so it should do the trick. Plus, it comes out after three to six washes. She won’t be that mad. It won’t look bad with her skin tone either.” Dean blinked, and then turned dubious eyes on his brother.

“How do you know how long she keeps conditioner in her hair?” he questioned. Sam froze, clearly not expecting the question. He looked away, appearing nervous… but also oddly a bit smug, too.

“I just _do_ , alright?!” he blurted.

“Yeah, I’m sure you and Trace trade hair tips all the time,” Dean chuckled. Sam’s expression morphed into his Bitchface, but there was a bit of redness to his cheeks. Wow—they did trade hair tips, didn’t they? “That’s priceless, Sammy, real priceless.” His brother told him to shut up and shoved his shoulder as he walked by. “We have to get more of her conditioner as a replacement.”

“I already know,” Sam called back.

Twenty minutes later, they had come to a stop outside of their motel room. They had bought what they had needed to. Sam had gotten three bottles of Tracee’s conditioner in the hopes that she wouldn’t maim in them in retaliation. Dean thought his brother’s paranoia was unnecessary. Tracee wouldn’t seriously hurt them, especially not over a harmless prank. She was a girl who appreciated humor. She would laugh about it… eventually. Come to think about it, Cassie hadn’t liked any deviation from her hair treatments, and that had been an accident. Her curls had been so frizzy, too. He had liked it, and had told her she looked like a sexy lion. She had not, and had retaliated. Over an accident. Internally, Dean winced. Maybe this was not such a good idea.

“You think she’s in there?” Sam asked, eyes on the door to their motel room.

“ _Nah_ , she would have texted,” Dean stated. He rummaged through the bag in order to pull out the hair dye. “Go in there and get the job done.”

“Why do _I_ have to do it?!”

“Because I _said_ so!” His retort caused Sam to glower and cross his arms. “ _And_ because if she does come walking up, I could distract her and give you the heads up. We time this just right, she won’t even think we’re up to something until it’s too late.” Sam kept the glower, but uncrossed his arms. He snatched the box out of Dean’s hand and moved to get out of the car. “Don’t leave behind evidence!”

“I’m not an idiot, Dean!” Sam nearly hissed, and then shut the door. Clearly he was overly anxious about this prank. Dean shook his head, and then opened his own door. He exited his car and shut the door just as his brother closed the door to the motel room. Hopefully, it wouldn’t take too long to put the dye in the conditioner and they could be gone before Tracee even knew they had come back. Dean sighed lightly as he leaned against the hood of the Impala.

He hated to admit it, but Sam had been right. He did like Tracee, and he did want to her stick around. Dean had believed she had wanted to leave. It shouldn’t have bothered him as much as it did. The people he came into contact with—they came and went, and he never batted an eye. Too many names. Too many faces. He had gotten used to distancing himself from people. Tracee was different. He didn’t know why, but she was. The thought of her leaving—it still bothered him, actually. So he was responding the only way he knew how, save for talking, and he wasn’t going to do that. So pranking it was. He hoped Tracee would see this whole thing as fun so that she would be less inclined to leave if they just happened to cross paths with something scarier than the daeva.

“Dean…!” He flinched, almost violently, hearing the familiar voice of Tracee Noland. He jerked his head to the left, eyes focusing on the tiny woman as she made her way over to him. Dressed in yoga pant, her blue sports bra, and a thin jacket, she didn’t appear to have anywhere to put her sword, so it was carried in her hand. Dean’s eyes darted over to the motel door. How long had Sam been? If they were caught in the act, the prank would be ruined. “I was just about to text you.” Tracee came to a stop in front of him, causing his attention to be diverted back to her. With raised eyebrows, she stared at him expectedly. “You done for today?”

“ _Uh_ … yeah… Yeah! Basically, it’s just a waiting game,” Dean told her. He hoped the panicked look had been wiped from his face. Although he had told Sam that the plan had been to distract if she came back, he did not actually plan for the distraction. And now she was here, and he had nothing. Plus, he couldn’t warn Sam now that she was right in front of him. He eyed the disguised sword for a second. Thinking quickly, he opened his mouth. “So how did your-” He cleared his throat. “-your ritual go?” Seemingly not noticing his nervousness, Tracee gave a small grin.

“I think it went well,” she answered. “Spent a bit longer working with this thing instead of running, but I’ll make that up later.” Her brown eyes looked around for a moment. “Where’s Samuel?”

“ _Uh_ , Sam? He’s _uh_ … changing. Yeah, changing,” Dean responded. Tracee lifted a curious brow. “Yup, you missed out on him fidgeting around because of the itching powder in his underwear.” She snorted, showing her amusement. “Would have waited for you to get back to see my awesome prank, but I just couldn’t resist.” He grinned at her, and she laughed in response, telling him that he ‘was too much.’ “I try.”

“I… actually wanted to talk to you alone,” Tracee announced once her giggles halted. Her voice took on a grim tone. Talk…? _No_! The last thing he wanted to do was have a serious conversation again. It hadn’t been twenty-four hours yet. “I want to have the same conversation with Samuel at a later time, so hopefully you back me up.”

“Back you up? About what?”

Tracee visibly breathed in deeply, and then released in a heavy sigh. She leaned against the car next to him. “About what happened in Chicago,” she said. “I thought a lot about it during my ritual, and… I remember things clearly now.” She set down her sword in between them, and then wrung her hands in front of her. It was one of her nervous habits. “I don’t think you realized what happened since you were attacked, too, but… I was pinned and helpless.” She looked very much uncomfortable confessing such a thing to him. “Then I wasn’t. The dresser had been moved and it knocked away the daeva that held me.”

“The dresser moved? You mean one of the daeva pushed it?” Dean questioned.

“No, it moved… Why would the daeva knock over its own comrade?”

“Well, they are savage,” Dean stated.

“… That crossed my mind,” Tracee admitted. “But in that situation, it made no sense. They weren’t fighting over Poppa-Winchester to get at _him_. No, the dresser moved by itself, or so I thought. I have since realized that it was Samuel that moved it.”

“ _Sam_ …? But he was in the middle of the room!” Dean exclaimed. He had known that because he remembered thinking that he had to get to his little brother. He remembered thinking he had to save him despite their attackers. In the end, it had been Sam that had saved them all. “There’s no way he would have gotten over to the dresser to push it enough, and not to insult him, but his upper body strength isn’t as good as it could be.”

“… His upper body strength is just fine, _trust_ me,” Tracee replied, voice taking on a knowing tone. Before Dean could question her knowledge, she forged ahead, expression morphing back to her serious face. “It wasn’t his strength of body, though. It was his strength of mind. I think he used telekinesis… like Max.”

“No. No way.”

“Yes, Dean. I’m almost positive that’s what happened,” Tracee said. “His psychic abilities are developing.”

“You don’t know that. It could have just been a coincidence,” Dean protested. “A one-time thing.”

“ _Shyeah_ , and that’s exactly what I thought when I accidently broke my dresser,” she retorted. “Your brother is a _psychic_ and you _both_ need to come to terms with that. It’s not going to go away.” A harsh inhale, followed by a heavy sigh filled the silence. Tracee sighed as well. “It took me some time to realize how different I am from others, so I’m not trying to push you guys into accepting it so soon after finding out. But… It is important to train with his powers. I didn’t just _know_ how to turn it on or off. I think that’s why my father moved me out of my dorm. I didn’t know how to control my strength and my father had to replace many things after I was… was activated.” She scratched at her neck. “Look—I just think he should learn to control these abilities. He might end up hurting himself, or worse, hurting someone else.”

“How is that worse?” Dean scoffed.

“I believe you know your brother well enough to know how devastating that would be to him, especially if he hurt _you_ ,” Tracee said. Dean remained silent, knowing there was truth in her words. “I already talked to the Madam. She told me that Max isn’t showing any other abilities so far other than what we experienced. Then again, he hasn’t been using his powers since he moved in. It could have just been a psychic version of adrenaline.”

“Then it was a one-time thing?”

“Maybe. If he does it again, though, then most likely not,” Tracee muttered. “If that’s the case, help me convince him that it’s in his best interest to learn how to use it. It’s better to have it and not need it than to need it and not have it.”

“Yeah, I hear what you’re saying,” Dean agreed with a nod.

“Does… Does it bother you that Samuel is a psychic?”

“ _Nah_ …” Tracee gave him a look. “Okay, fine, yeah it does. With what we do, it’s already hard as hell to protect him. Now I have to worry about him being targeted because he has _powers_ —powers that he shouldn’t have. Powers that… could have been the reason that demon was in his nursery in the first place.” Dean sighed heavily again. “I don’t know… It just feels like our life is already complicated, but now he suddenly has these powers. _I_ don’t have powers. What am I supposed to do if… What if I can’t protect him like I’m supposed to?”

Tracee was quiet for a time, but he could feel her eyes on him. Damn. He had said too much. He had revealed insecurities that he would have rather kept hidden. He wasn’t a talker, and yet here he was spilling his guts to a girl who he had only known for… a month and a half? Had it really been that short of time? Dean swallowed hard, attempting to think of a way to shift the somber mood into something lighter, but before he could open his mouth, Tracee touched his shoulder. “Hey, you’re not the only one that can protect him now,” she stated. “I have a vague notion of what it was like growing up for you and Samuel, but… I mean, I know I’m not family, but that responsibility doesn’t lie solely with you anymore. I’m here, and I’ll stay and… be better for the both of you. You can rely on me from now on.”

“Trace,” Dean began, but he honestly had no idea how to respond to her declaration.

Fortunately, he hadn’t needed to. As Tracee stared expectedly at him, Sam had opened the door to their motel room, apparently accomplishing his task. “Tracee…!” His squeak of her name almost made Dean roll his eyes. The tiny woman pushed herself from the car with a grin on her face, eyes focused solely on Sam. The two embraced, as they tended to do whenever there was prolonged time apart. “You’re done with your ritual?” he asked, only glancing in Dean’s direction. He appeared panicked. Dean shook his head to reassure him that they were still safe. Only then did he relax.

“ _Shyeah_ ,” Tracee answered, letting her arms fall. “I’m going to take a shower, and then you guys can explain this whole ‘waiting game’ to me at dinner… Speaking of which, I heard about your latest prank.” Sam immediately tensed and blurted out that it had all been his brother’s idea. Said brother shot him a betrayed look. “I know, itching powder sounds like it came from him.”

“Itching… Yeah, of course,” Sam awkwardly chuckled.

“You got it all out, right?” Tracee continued, oblivious to the relieved look Sam was sporting. He nodded his head. “Anyway. I’ll head in and meet you guys at that diner after I’m done.” She turned to grab her sword from the hood of the Impala. “Don’t prank him back unless I’m there.” Her brown eyes looked his way for a moment, and then she gave him a reassuring smile. “I want three cheeseburgers with extra bacon—none of that mayonnaise shit.”

“It was one time, Trace! Get _over_ it!”

She rolled her eyes, smiled at Sam, and then headed to the room’s door. Only after the door had shut behind her had Dean shifted his eyes to his brother again. If what Tracee had told had been the truth, things were going to get more complicated. He felt it in his gut. But… Hearing that she would protect him, too—well, it had put an ease on his mind. “Dean… _Dean_!” The older Winchester blinked twice, realizing that Sam had been trying to get his attention. “What’s wrong with you?”

“Nothing! Let’s go eat,” he replied, heading towards the driver’s side door. “And hope that the tiny tank doesn’t kill us.”

 

0-0

 

“I’m going to kill you both.”

As those had been her first words since she entered the diner, Tracee took great joy in watching both brothers’ expression shift into horror. She had said it with a smile, after all. Perhaps she shouldn’t have slammed her palms against the table. Still, her anger was warranted. The dorks had clearly conspired together to carry out the vicious prank. She should have realized they had been up to no good when they had acted weird outside the motel room. But no. She had been too keen on talking to Dean and hugging Sam to find their behavior suspicious. Now, she had to walk around with splotches of purple in her hair. Just thinking about it caused the plastered smile on her face to morph into a glower.

“Now, Trace…! Realize that we are in public before you go wild!” Dean attempted to appease her. “And look…! _Food_!” Tracee shifted her gaze from the older brother to the plate of burgers on the table. They were untouched and looked hella delicious. She pressed her lips into a thin line. Instead of three, as she had requested, there were six. To go with it, there was a pile of fries, too. They had also ordered her two glasses of _Sprite_ with bright red cherries at the bottom. Her expression softened just a bit as she slid into the booth beside the older brother. Scoffing, she picked up a fry and began eating. She almost disliked that they knew her weakness.

“It was Dean’s idea…” Sam said feebly. “ _OW_!” Apparently his confession garnered a kick from his brother underneath the table. After shooting Dean a dirty look, his hazel eyes returned to her, appearing apologetic. “It’s… It’s not that bad.” Honestly, on the way over, she had convinced herself that it could have been worse. After all, she could have done a half-ass job of conditioning her hair. It would have been much worse if only the top had been dyed. Fortunately, this time she had been thorough—all the way to the roots. “Besides, you look cute.”

“Both of you are lucky that I walked off my anger on the way here,” Tracee replied. And that was the truth. If they had been waiting for her outside the motel room, she would have wreck the Impala. With both of them still in it. She had spent almost thirty minutes with the tainted conditioner in her hair before washing again. She hadn’t realized the dye had settled until she had been about to dry off. As she straightened, and curled, her hair, she had thoughts of the many ways she could wreak havoc on the fools that had dared. However, thoughts of causing harm had left her system within the twenty minutes it took to walk to the diner. “If my hair falls out, I’m gonna shave your head, Dean.”

“Why just me?! _Sam’s_ the one that did it!”

“Dude!”

“I’m not as fond of _your_ hair,” Tracee replied with a shrug, and then picked up one of the burgers. It was still warm. “So what’s the what?” Ignoring Dean’s pout, she bit into her burger, gesturing for the review to start. As she ate her meal, the two brothers took turns explaining the quasi-ghost. Mordechai was actually a _Tulpa_ , which had been the reason salt and iron hadn’t been effective against him. He was an idea—a manifestation of belief from the thousands of viewers on the Hell Hounds Lair website. “So thousands of people believe in Mordechai, and he just comes to life? So does that mean Santa’s real, too?” Sam chuckled at her sarcastic question.

“You’ve been hanging around Dean too much,” he said. “And before you ask… it’s because you’re naughty.” Tracee choked on the fry she had been eating. Dean had to slap her back in order to dislodge it. Embarrassed and a bit turned on, she swallowed several gulps of her beverage while glaring at the smug grin on Sam’s face. The little shit…! Once she calmed herself, she set down her glass and questioned what the difference was between this Tulpa and Santa Claus. “It’s the Tibetan symbol we saw on the wall at the house. I researched all the symbols, and like Dean said, most of them were from albums in Craig’s store. Others were from his cousin’s text books. They drew the symbol not knowing its background, so the legend turned real.”

“So how do we stop it?” Tracee asked. “I’m guessing we can’t just cover up the symbol.”

“No, but we _can_ manipulate the legend to our advantage,” Dean stated. “We made a fake death certificate and gave it to those morons who created the site. Once they post that and people start believing, we can go and shoot the bastard with iron rounds.”

“ _Ah_ , clever,” she complimented. Dean smirked proudly, and then pulled a string to his right. Her face twisted into a grimace as the strange figure of a man holding a fish started laughing obnoxiously. Across from them, Sam groaned, clearly irritated. She looked back at the older Winchester, wondering how long he had been pulling the string before she had arrived. “So did they post yet?”

“We were just about to check when you came in,” Sam answered. He shifted in his seat, pulling his laptop out to sit on the table. He opened it and began typing. It didn’t take him long to pull up what he wanted to see. “They did.” He turned the laptop around so that they could see the screen. Dean leaned forward and read out loud as Tracee scanned over the words.

“How sure are you that it’s going to work?” she questioned.

“Pretty sure—the legend changes, so Mordechai does, too,” Dean replied. Tracee nodded her head, remaining silent. She was beginning to think the two survived as long as they had with a lot of luck. That, or they had a guardian angel. She took a sip of her drink just as the older Winchester cleared his throat. “So what about you? You up for this?” Tracee reached up, scratching the left side of her neck. She knew one of them would ask again. Swallowing, she placed her glass back on the table.

“I think… I’m feeling up to it,” she replied, nodding her head. “The meditation definitely helped. I’ve thought about a lot of things, and-” A sigh left her mouth. “-And I’m ready.” Because she was staring down at her plate, she did not see the smiles being directed her way. “So… how long do we wait?” Sam shut the lid to his laptop, drawing her attention.

“Long enough for the new story to spread,” he stated. “And the legend to change. I figure by nightfall, iron rounds will work on the sucker.” He held up his beer bottle, wanting to toast. Tracee nodded and lifted her glass. Dean lifted his beer body as well. The sound of their respective glasses clinking together was actually pretty satisfying. Had she still been a bundle of nerves about the supernatural, it probably would have soothed her.

Sam suddenly snorted, and then laughed. Tracee blinked, looking from the younger brother to the older one. Dean appeared baffled as he moved his hand in an attempt to drop the bottle. The bottle remained stuck to his hand. Judging from the haughty laughter from Sam, it had been glued to his skin. “You didn’t…!” Dean said incredulously as he stared at his brother. Tracee laughed out loud, realizing it had been another prank. Dean’s betrayed expression was too much.

“Oh, he _did_!” she giggled, covering her mouth. Sam held up a tube of super glue to show that he had indeed carried out another prank. He reached over, pulling the string, causing the figurine to laugh along with them. Tracee could no longer hold back her belly-aching laugh anymore. She was sure other customers were looking their way, but could not bring herself to care at the moment. She had no idea how much she had needed that laugh. Dean huffed, muttering that it hadn’t been that funny. “Don’t worry. I got some nail polish remover in the car.” She grinned sweetly at him, but he only frowned.

“Yeah, and what’s that gonna do?” he retorted, trying to pry the bottle from his hand.

“ _Not_ tear your skin off,” Tracee told him, halting his effort. “Trust me, Dean. You do not want to get it off like that.”

“I’m not going to touch that line with a ten-foot pole,” Sam remarked.

“ _Now_ who’s naughty?”

“Still you—hands down,” he answered, raising both eyebrows.

“You’ve been hanging around Dean too long,” Tracee muttered, feeling heat rush to her cheeks. He only laughed. She huffed, and then continued to eat. Samuel Winchester did not realize how close he was to being jumped. She swallowed, and then cleared her throat. “So how long does it take to wash this stuff out, anyway?” Both brothers exchanged an ‘oh shit’ look. Actually, she was getting a little better at reading their silent conversations. “What? I won’t get mad. The hair dye prank is pretty classic, so tell me.”

“Three to six,” Sam finally answered, appearing uncomfortable.

“Oh? Three to six minutes? That’s all. Cool.”

“ _Nah_ —he means three to six times you have to wash your hair in order for it to fade,” Dean clarified. And just like that, the anger came back.

“I’m gonna kill you both!”

 

0-0

 

After being thrown out of the diner for causing a scene, the three had made their way back to the haunted house. To throw off the patrolling officers, Dean had set up a distraction in the opposite direction of the house. They couldn’t risk being interrupted by the local authorities. Equipped with a flashlight, Dean entered the house with Tracee and Sam following close behind. Back to back to back, the three began their search for the _Tulpa_. They checked each side room before moving through a closed door in the direction of the basement. Dean aimed the light at the basement door. Both he and Sam had their guns drawn and focused on the door. Behind them, Tracee swallowed hard and twisted her wrist, disengaging the lock on her _katana_.

“Well, do you think old Mordechai’s home?” Dean asked, jokingly.

“Yes,” Tracee answered, stiffening. She could feel a concentrated aura just behind that door. Both brothers glanced at her before focusing on the door again. The _Tulpa_ was apparently waiting for them to go into the basement. This would not end up the same as last time, though. “Wait until he comes out.” They both nodded in understanding.

“How long?” Sam questioned.

“I don’t know,” she replied.

“Me neither,” a familiar voice answered as well. Almost instantly, the Winchester whirled around, aiming their guns at the interlopers. Tracee’s eyes remained on the door. The voice had belonged to that moron with the glasses. No need to turn around to discover him and the skittish one had come along as well. “Whoa! Whoa!”

“What are you trying to do—get yourselves killed?!” Sam nearly growled. Tracee had to ignore the way her body responded to that voice. It had sent a trill right down to her lower belly. Clearing her throat, she forced herself not to think about it.

“Focus!” she hissed, interrupting whatever answer the men behind her might have given. As commanded, Dean and Sam faced the door again just as a clear scraping noise came through the door. It sounded as though someone was sharpening blades. Apparently this Tulpa was a cheeky one. Clearly, the intention had been to cause intimidation. Tracee gripped the hilt of her katana harder. “Here we go…” The scrapping came again, louder than before. She felt the two behind her crowd her space. It took an iron will not to roll her eyes in exasperation.

The door finally burst open, revealing a screaming Mordechai with an axe in his hands. Dean and Sam immediately opened fire, not waiting for the Tulpa to take another step. Tracee winced at the loudness of their guns, but kept her gaze on the spirit. Despite the iron rounds pelting him, Mordechai shifted slowly in direction. Eyes wide, she realized that the bullets were not working. Eventually, the spirit disappeared in a haze, but it had been in the same manner it had disappeared the previous night.

“You!” Tracee sharply turned, facing the two sputtering men. “Why didn’t iron bullets work?! Didn’t you post that death certificate on that website?!”

“It didn’t work?” Sam questioned behind her.

“I can still feel him,” she responded, glaring at the two morons before her. “Why didn’t you post it?”

“We-We did!” the skittish one answered. “… But then ou-our servers crashed.”

“So it didn’t take?” Dean asked. “These guns don’t work?!” Feebly, the one with the glasses gave a confirmation. Tracee groaned, frustrated by the turn of events. “Great! Sam, Trace, any ideas?”

“Leave the legend to the locals?” Tracee suggested, turning to face the brothers. They both gave her looks. Rolling her eyes, she sighed. “I’m kidding… kinda.” Behind her, the two morons scurried off, exclaiming that they needed to leave. “So what do we do?” It took several moments for one of them to speak up.

“Improvise,” Dean answered.

“ _The power of Christ compels you_!”

The shout from another part of the house made Tracee roll her eyes. It appeared the Tulpa had found its next victims. “I’ll go,” she murmured, turning to follow the path the amateurs had taken. When she found them, they were backed against a wall by Mordechai. Taking a deep breath, she shut her eyes. “Hey!” Upon opening them, she saw that the Tulpa had turned to face her. Tracee pulled her wooden sheath from her belt loop, locking her blade inside. No need to draw it in this situation. It would do nothing against this opponent. “Why don’t you come take on a real challenge?”

The taunt worked. Snarling, Mordechai walked towards her, twirling his axe. Her insides tensed in panic. Seeing him up close, she could make out red eyes and rugged grey skin. He was terrifying, and her mind screamed for her to run away. But that wasn’t an option. Running away was never going to be an option anymore. Mordechai brought down his axe and Tracee blocked it with her sheath. Whilst the Tulpa was distracted, she shouted for the two morons to leave. They hadn’t needed to be told twice.

As soon as they were gone, Mordechai seemed to take offense. His strength increased, allowing him to shift her and slam her back against the wall. Tracee gasped, horrified that it was taking most of her strength to keep her own sheath from blocking her airway. There was pain. There was fear. There was doubt. This was her life now. She chose this. She had chosen to take it all. The bad stuff… but also the good stuff. Squeezing her eyes shut, Tracee forced herself to calm down. The threat of death—that is what she had chosen. There would be pain, and she would get hurt. However, that was something she had to deal with. That was something she had to embrace.

She was a Slayer, and as her dreams told her, _death was her gift_.

Sharply opening her eyes, Tracee lifted her knees and used the soles of her feet to kick the Tulpa away. Snarling, he came again, axe raised high. She dropped down, shooting her leg out. His leg buckled backward under the force of the impact and he fell forward. Her arm stretched out, palm colliding against Mordechai’s face. Her fingers curled, gripping hard. In the next instant, she rammed his head against the floor. Three times in rapid succession. The Tulpa roared, and then disappeared in a mist.

Scowling, Tracee jumped to her feet. She barely had time to look around before she was slammed into the wall again. Her nose and lips felt the impact, and she cried out. “ _Slayer_ …!” Mordechai hissed in her ear. Tracee quickly reared her head back, knocking against her enemy. She turned, punching him in the abdomen in the same motion. With a swipe of her arm, the flat side of her sheath smacked him in the face. She spun, raising he him in the chest. He flew back, smashing against the decaying wood and breaking it completely.

“Trace…!” Dean called to her from the next room. Hesitating, she glared at the Tulpa. Red eyes glared right back as Mordechai attempted to dislodge himself. “Trace, come on!” Clenching her teeth, the Slayer turned on her heel and moved quickly towards where Dean’s voice had come. This was not an opponent she could beat by normal means—neither with her fists or katana. The Tulpa was impervious to whatever attack she might think of because of the way he was created. Hopefully, Dean and Sam had come up with something whilst she had been distracting. She met the two towards the front of the house. Sam reached out for her, and she took his hand immediately. “If Mordechai can’t leave the house and we can’t kill him…”

“Then we improvise,” Sam finished. Tracee watched the older Winchester take out his zippo lighter, flick open the top, and then toss it behind them. The room almost immediately went up in flames.

“I liked that lighter!” she complained, frowning. Sometimes, she would steal it from him to flick it open and close while she read. Usually, it would get on his last nerves, and Tracee took joy in the older brother’s displeasure.

“I’ll get a new one—come on!” Dean retorted, and then made a dash towards the exit. Practically on his heels, she and Sam hurried after him as the flames grew. The three didn’t stop running until they were at a safe distance from the burning house. They turned, looking as the flames consumed the old building. Tracee narrowed her eyes, seeing a glimmer of the Tulpa near the front door. It vanished in a similar fashion as before. “This way, no one will go in anymore,” Dean explained, panting lightly. “Mordechai can’t haunt a house if there’s no house to haunt.”

“Clever,” Tracee replied, turning her eyes away from the house. “But what happens if the legend changes again? What if he doesn’t need a house a haunt anymore? I doubt those morons will let the website go.”

“Then…” Dean opened and closed his mouth, clearly not having thought about what ifs. “Then we’ll just come back,” he finally stated. Tracee nodded her head, agreeing. Perhaps at a later time, they wouldn’t have to think on their feet.

“Kinda makes you wonder,” Sam muttered, drawing her attention to him. “Out of everything we’ve hunted—how many existed just because people believed in ‘em…” For that, Dean did not have a response.

“… You think too much, Samuel,” Tracee told him. He looked her way, appearing as though he might retort—probably something similar to the pot calling the kettle black—but he halted, looking closely at her. “What?”

“You’re bleeding,” he stated, his other hand lifting to allow his thumb to lightly touch her lower lip. Tracee twitched, but it wasn’t painful. It had felt worse when it had happened. “Are you okay?”

“ _Shyeah_ ,” she answered. Her eyes looked at the house one more time. “I’m okay.” Honestly, this felt like a turning point. Even though she hadn’t defeated Mordechai, it felt as though she had defeated her fear. She could live this life. She could be useful and make good on her promise. She could be a Slayer. “Let’s go before the popo show.”

A few hours later, the three were all packed up and ready to leave Richardson. But first, Sam thought it might be a good idea to see where those two morons stood. Honestly, she hadn’t bothered to remember their names, and would probably refer to them by ‘those two morons’ in the future. They had promised not to alter Mordechai’s background again and disallow their ‘fans’ from altering the legend, too. All in all, the case was pretty much wrapped up.

Tracee didn’t know what they were sticking around, waiting for the two morons to come out of the little shop, but they had been taking their sweet time, so she had decided to pay them back for the trouble… and the insults. Being called amateur still bothered her quite a bit, after all. “Gentlemen, and my lovely lady,” the curly-haired man caught her attention. She immediately scowled.

“Hey, guys,” Sam greeted again. The two morons were carrying paper bags full of things. “And _don’t_ call her that.” 

“ _Shyeah_ , don’t call me that,” Tracee agreed, pushing herself from the picnic table. The moron had the nerve to wink. “Are you _high_?!”

“Just a little bit,” he admitted. “So we might as well tell you—let you be the first to know.” He sniffed haughtily. “We got a call this morning from a Hollywood producer—that’s why we were at the house.”

“Oh? Wrong number?” Dean questioned flippantly as they followed the two to their tiny car.

“No, smartass,” glasses rejoined. He deposited the bag into the car and turned to face them. “He read all about the Hell House on our website and wants to option the motion-picture rights. Maybe even have us write it.”

“Yeah the fuck right,” Tracee muttered. Beside her, Sam snickered. Seemingly not having heard her, the skittish spoke up, saying that they were going to create the RPG. Dean looked really confused. “Role-playing game,” she supplied. He looked at her, eyebrow furrowed and frown on his face.

“You know what that means, but not BOC?” he asked. Tracee merely shrugged. “Right…”

“ _Anyhoo_ …! Excuse us—we’re off to la-la land.”

“Well, congratulations, guys! That sounds… really great,” Sam told them.

“Yeah—that’s awesome. Best of luck to you,” Dean tried.

“Oh yeah, luck—it’s got nothing to do with it.” Obviously, he could not take a compliment. Tracee folded her arms over her chest. If this fool didn’t get into his car already…! “It’s about talent. Sheer, unabashed talent.” When they chose not to respond to him anymore, the man finally settled into his vehicle and shut the door. A smile worked its way onto Tracee’s face as she watched the other one climb in as well. “Later…!” After a few moments of backfiring, the car finally pulled around, dragging the trailer behind it.

“Wow…” Dean muttered as he shook his head. He began walking towards the Impala, prompting them to follow. Despite the cold, she felt warm tingles just thinking about what those morons would face because of her. “There’s all sorts of people, aren’t there?”

“I have a confession to make,” Sam began. Curious, Tracee turned her eyes to him. Dean, too, was curious. “I _uh_ … I was the one that called them and told them I was producer.” He laughed outright as he walked over to the passenger side. Dean guffawed and she giggled in response.

“That’s too good!”

“Well, I’m the one who put the dead fish in their backseat,” Dean admitted. They got an even bigger laugh.

“You guys are horrible!” Tracee remarked, but that didn’t stop her from cackling. “I put superglue on their seats. Good luck getting out of that stinky car to meet that big time producer!” Both brothers grinned at her, probably pleasantly surprised she had decided to participate in their pranking. “Seriously, though… This was fun. I’m… I’m glad I’m here.”

“Yeah…?” Dean asked, opening the driver’s door. She nodded her head. “Awesome.”

“And… thanks for letting me handle Mordechai by myself,” Tracee continued. “I think that was something I had to do alone.” They didn’t response, but from the looks that they showed, it was clear to her that they hadn’t wanted to be caught. “But in the future, feel free to jump in. I don’t mind.” Sam sighed, seemingly in relief.

“So we’re good?” he probed.

“Real good.” She smiled up at him, and he smiled back. “But _don’t_ mess with my hair again—I will kill you both. I’m _not_ kidding.” The Winchesters immediately stopped grinning. Tracee chuckled. “Now let’s get out of here.”


	13. Temptation

_Lay down the boogie, and play that funky music till you die!_

Sam grinned to himself, eyeing the small woman that had turned the tavern into a dancefloor. Sure, the bar had a stage and a floor meant for dancing, but hardly anyone had been paying attention to the band when the three of them had first arrived. Then Tracee had gotten bored. She had cajoled the lead singer to play something other than original songs. Soon, many of the inhabitants had been dancing to familiar tunes. And she, who had started it, danced on the edge of the crowd, genuinely having fun. He would have joined her, but… he wasn’t too confident that his dancing skills would suffice in this situation.

Besides, despite Dean’s urging to ‘live a little,’ Sam still had to find them a route to take. They had been stuck in a town for two days, having had thought a few disappearances had been their thing. Turns out, the job had led them to a shady hotel and a pretty weird affair. It had paled in comparison to the _Shtriga_. They had all been left feeling a bit dissatisfied. Tracee in particular. Probably had something to do with her being a Slayer. She had mentioned her annoyance upon finding the missing people, saying that had had hoped to hit something. Dean had noticed how wound up she had been, and had immediately decided to head to a bar to let loose. Fortunately, his plan had worked.

Tracee was swinging her hips and moving her arms through the air, all in a coaxing manner that Sam had found all too easy to become distracted by. In her own little world, she had no idea of the voracious eyes that watched her every move. He should be focused on the newspaper article in his hands, but he couldn’t keep his gaze from lifting so that he could enjoy her dance. Pretty mouth moving to the words of the song, eyes closed, Tracee reared her head back, exposing her neck. It was an enticing image—one his mind took and ran away with. Instead of lyrics, her lips panted out his name. _Samuel_ … _Samuel_ … _Samuel_ … Over and over again as he held her from behind and kissed her exposed neck. And suddenly, there weren’t dancing in a bar. They were standing her in her shower, Tracee bracing herself against the wall as he-

With a jolt, Sam tore his eyes away from the tiny woman and attempted to focus on the article. It wasn’t the first time he had pictured one of the best mornings of his life, and it wouldn’t be the last, but he really needed to stop imagining that in public. Clearing his throat, he blinked rapidly at the words below him. After comparing notes from his dad’s journal and the news article, Sam decided where they should head next. He looked around, searching for his brother. Dean was currently chatting up a woman at the bar. As if sensing his gaze, Dean turned his way mid-laugh. Sam took the chance to wave him over.

After a few moments, his brother had not begun to walk over. Slightly annoyed, Sam gestured for him again with a more urgent wave. He saw the grin fade on his brother’s face. Dean said a few more words to the girl before walking over with two glasses in his hands. One, probably beer, and the other had to belong to Tracee seeing as how that glass had cherries at the bottom. “Alright, so I think I’ve got something,” Sam began.

“Yeah, me, too!” Dean glanced behind him to the bar, missing the eye roll entirely. “I think we need to take a little shore leave,” he continued, turning back to face him. “Just for a little bit. What do you think, huh? I’m so in the door with this one.” He made a show of pointing. Then his eyes shifted elsewhere. “Looks like Trace’s getting lucky, too.”

“What?” Sam snapped his attention to where he had last seen her. She was no longer dancing alone. A stranger had come up behind her, holding her against him by gripping her hips and moving with her. Judging by the soft smile on Tracee’s face, she didn’t appear to be put off with the man’s actions. A frown had worked its way on Sam’s face as he continued to stare. This was the first time since he had met her that… she appeared interested in someone else. Admittedly, it made him uncomfortable. He had become complacent, truly thinking that… Sam was snapped out of his thoughts by Dean snapping his fingers in front of his eyes. “What?!” he asked, showing his irritation.

“Dude, I was telling you that this girl’s got a friend. I could hook you up,” he replied, not in the least bit concerned by the irritation.

“Yeah… no thanks,” Sam scoffed, letting his gaze fall to the news article again. “I can…” He swallowed hard, forcing himself not to look over at the dancing couple again. “I can get my own dates.”

“You can, but you don’t,” Dean muttered. Sam looked up again, narrowing his eyes at his brother. His brother lifted his hands in a gesture of surrender, so apparently he had seen the ire. “ _Nah_ , forget it—what you got?”

“… Go get Tracee, and then I’ll tell you both,” Sam stated. With an exaggerated eye roll, Dean turned and headed over to the two. A few words were exchanged between his brother and Tracee before she grinned and hooked an arm around his torso. He did the same to her, and without so much a backwards glance at the stranger, the two made their way over to him. They might not have noticed, but the man scowled at their retreating backs before turning away. Sam might have gotten some satisfaction because of that.

“What’d you get me?” Tracee asked, coming to a stop at the table. She unwound her arm from Dean and picked up the glass with both hands. She hummed in content as she drank. Sam slid the newspaper in front of her, drawing her eyes to the front page article. Briefly, he gave her a summary for what he had found regarding the news article. She nodded to his words as her eyes scanned the page. “ _Kagi no kakatta heya_ …” she murmured. Pressing her thumb against her lower lip, she narrowed her eyes and picked up the paper. She had said that before in Chicago. Sam still didn’t know what it meant, but she had the same gleam in her eye as before.

“What’s that mean?” Dean asked, and then drained his glass of beer.

“Basically… a locked room murder,” Tracee replied absentmindedly. Then her eyes focused on him. “Although I am intrigued, what makes this a case for _us_? I don’t want _normal_ again.”

“Dad noted three murders in the same area of upstart New York,” Sam answered, turning his dad’s journal so the both of them could see his findings. As he explained, he pointed at three different notes his dad had left behind. “Now so much time had passed that no one connected the murders. Except dad. He always kept his eyes peeled for the next one.”

“Well…” Tracee sucked in a breath. “If Poppa-Winchester made note of it, but couldn’t do anything without the next body, I suppose we could check it out.”

“Yeah, but we can’t pick this up till first thing, though, right?” Dean asked.

“Yeah…” Sam answered.

“Good.”

Sam watched incredulous as his brother turned and headed back to the bar. He honestly should have seen that coming. Turning his eyes to Tracee, he noticed that she was scrutinizing his dad’s journal. “You want to head back?” he asked. Her brown eyes found his before smiling lightly and nodding her head. She then turned, heading for the exit.

“Let’s go,” she urged. Sam nodded, picking up the newspaper and dad’s journal before hurriedly following after her.

 

0-0

 

Sighing lightly, Sam shut his laptop close. An hour later, and he hadn’t found anything strange or suspicious about the house or the murdered couple. More than likely, more information would only be gathered when they actually went to inspect the house tomorrow. “I told you~!” Tracee’s voice crooned. Sam turned his eyes to the woman on the bed. She hadn’t looked up from reading a paperback book she had brought from the car. With her legs swaying in the air, she appeared quite nonchalant about his frustration. She had warned him not to worry about the new job until the morning. _Wait until morning to research_ , she had said. _No point in disappointed this late at night_. It had been a passing remark as she had headed into the bathroom for her shower. “Now you’re gonna be all frowny face before bed.”

“Well, at least it’s not the both of us,” Sam commented, swiveling in his chair in order to face her completely. Tracee blinked, and then her teasing grin turned sheepish. “You were pretty agitated earlier.”

“You caught that, did you?” she asked, shifting her gaze from the book to him. He grinned back at her as he nodded. A chuckle left her mouth as she moved into a crouched position on the bed, similar to a cat, really. She cleared her throat. “Sorry if I snapped at you,” Tracee murmured, closing her book. “But I’m good now. Dancing _was_ helpful. Very relaxing.”

“… Yeah, you looked like you were enjoying yourself,” Sam replied. “Sorry to pull you away from your dance partner.” Tracee narrowed her eyes, appearing a bit baffled by his remark. In hindsight, it had sounded a little bitter. Just as he was about to apologize, an easy smile worked its way onto her face.

“If my _real_ dance partner hadn’t been ignoring my calls, then I wouldn’t have dealt with that guy in the first place…” she simpered with an exaggerated eye roll. Sam tensed at the implication behind her words. He had assumed he had been imagining those winks and those ‘come hither’ gestures. His mouth dropped opened, but no words came forth. Tracee ignored his reaction, anyway. “Besides, it was good that Dean showed up when he did. A second later, that guy would have walked off with a broken wrist. He was too much with the hands.” A flare of anger surged through him. For a split second, Sam imagined his bloodied fist and the stranger’s bruised appearance. He shook the violent image away, but just below the surface, anger still bubbled. He hadn’t seen it, but why wouldn’t another guy paw at the first chance he got? He should have been the one to step in—not Dean. “Anyway, what do you do to relax?”

“What?”

“Relaxation,” Tracee clarified, unperturbed by the roller coaster of emotions she had just sent him on. “You’ve been at this a lot longer—you and Dean—so there must be a way for you to unwind. Dean’s way is _quite_ obvious.” Sam chuckled, showing his agreement. “You’re not a _slag_ , too, are you, Samuel?”

“No, can’t say that I am.”

“Then what do you do?”

“Reading is relaxing, isn’t it?”

“I don’t think I’ve ever seen you pick up a book that wasn’t lore-based, so that doesn’t count,” Tracee told him. Sam grimaced, realizing that she was probably right about that. Since she had started traveling with them, there hadn’t been much down time. Not really. She had only seen his actions in regards to hunting. Honestly, though, if it wasn’t hunting, he generally chose to study—lore or otherwise. “Come on, Samuel,” Tracee continued, voice dropping low. She crawled forward, and then moved smoothly her feet on to the floor. Swallowing hard, feelings of anticipation swelled inside as his eyes trailed up from her painted blue toenails to her bare legs, hips, pausing on her chest—and then neck—and finally settling on her mischievous brown eyes. “What’s a girl gotta do to get you relaxed?”

“I… I can think of a few things,” Sam said, feeling the corner of his lips curl as she approached him.

“Only a few…?” Her question had been innocent, but the way she bit her lower lip had to be another come hither tactic. Sam leaned forward, hands on his knees, as she came closer. “With that big brain of yours? Doubtful,” Tracee scoffed, and then returned his smirk with one of her own. She leaned forward as well, hands resting on top of his. She stared into his eyes, drawing closer still. It took most of his will not to drop his gaze down to where he knew her loose school shirt showed a substantial amount of her cleavage. “How about dancing?”

“I don’t think so,” Sam said, shaking his head a bit. Not like how she moved, anyway. From the type of dancing he had seen her doing in Ashland to just an hour ago in the bar—he knew with certainty that he would look like a fool if he attempted. Tracee tilted her head to the side. Her expression appeared almost disappointed. Then that mischievous glint came back, along with a grin.

“Oh, look at that—a man that doesn’t have rhythm. What are the odds?” she asked in a teasing manner. Sam found himself chuckling.

“ _Heh_ … You, of all people, should know how much rhythm I have,” he teased back, leaning forward again until his forehead pressed against hers. “Shouldn’t you…?” His question had unintentionally came out deep and husky. Tracee reacted by drawing in a slow breath and shutting her eyes, maybe remembering their shared rhythm in Ashland. He had remembered their erotic dances many times since, and had gotten him the most sarcastic side-eyed from Dean almost every time he took longer in the shower. Tracee hummed lightly, drawing him back to the present. Her eyes were open and she stared at him expectedly.

“No, I can’t seem to recall,” she said, showing him a coy smile. “ _Show_ me.”

Tracee moved away, smile widening as he stood up from the chair to follow. His arms encircled her, pulling her against his frame. As though not expecting his boldness, a light gasp left her mouth. Sam showed his teeth in a smile, palm against the small of her back. His other hand found hers and outstretched their arms. She grasped the top of his shoulder in an attempt to balance as he led her into a waltz around the motel room. They swayed for several moments, dancing to silence and the occasional giggle. They slowed down a bit, her eyes staring up at him and his staring down. Tracee bit her lip again. Sam swallowed, and then cleared his throat. “Well, how is it?” he asked, finally coming to a halt.

“… Well,” she muttered, averted her gaze for a second. “It wasn’t the tango, but it was fine.”

“Hey! Does nothing please you?” Sam asked, partially annoyed by her nonchalant answer. In retaliation, he moved both hands to her abdomen, fingers tickling her. To his delight, and surprise, peals of laughter exploded from her lips as she backed away from him. Realizing his sudden advantage, a grin spread across his face. Noticing, Tracee held up both fingers and pointed.

“You better _not_ …!” she warned.

Sam gleefully did not heed her warning. He outstretched both arms so that his fingers could get at her belly. Yelping, backed away again, but he had already caught her. Her laughter mixed with pleas to stop had only made his fingers move more vigorously against her. Tracee squealed, turning in an attempt to halt his efforts. Sam only wrapped his arms around her, pulling her back against his front again, and continued to tickle her relentlessly. She wiggled in his arms, gasping, laughing, and trying to escape. In the struggle, they both fell to the bed. He pinned her with his body and moved his fingers to her underarms. Her laughter came out louder than before, along with several _nononono_ — _you dork_. She flopped and twisted, trying to upheave him from her body. It was a wonder how he could still manage to stay on top with her being stronger than him. Apparently tickling was a weakness for her.

He didn’t know how long he tortured her like that, but she had wiggled around enough to face him again. Both of them were panting with tired grins. Sam held her wrists against the bed on either side of her head, absolutely fascinated by her expression. Exhausted, but so happy with tears trickling down her face. She was so cute. The urge to kiss had never been greater. Tracee whined out, unknowingly stopping him from doing just that. With her eyes squeezed shut, she remained unaware of the longing stare. “My stomach…” she murmured. “I’m… I’m gonna get you back for this, Samuel Winchester!” She opened her eyes, fixing her expression into a playful glare.

“Good luck finding my tickle spot,” Sam retorted. “Not even Dean knows.” Then suddenly, he wasn’t on top anymore. Tracee had used her strength and flawlessly switched their positions. Smirking now, she held his wrists above his head and straddled his belly. No matter how much he struggled, he could barely move his arms. He tilted his head, looking up at his trapped hands. Then he shifted his gaze back to Tracee. She had lost her smirk in the time it took for him to realize how utterly pinned he was. And turned on. Oh, God, he was so turned on. Fortunately, the tiny woman hadn’t chosen to sit any lower.

“That a challenge, Samuel?” Tracee asked, both eyebrows raised. “Because I didn’t say anything about _tickling_.” She lowered herself until her face was mere inches from his. Sam released a silent strained breath, tongue darting out to wet his lips. Her brown eyes lowered to his lips and her smile came back. “You enjoy this? My being on top?”

“Maybe,” he replied. She bit her lower lip, showing hesitation as she looked him in the eye again. “Why don’t you find out, huh?” Roughly translated, it had meant that she could kiss—or punish—him how ever she saw fit. And he couldn’t mind at all. If he were completely honest, he had been waiting ever since Ashland. He had given her that power. After two months of will-she-won’t-she, there had seemed to be no progression. Anyone else might have given up, but he couldn’t. Sam _didn’t_ want to give up. There’s was just… something about Tracee Noland. He had felt it in her hometown, but now, after _knowing_ her, the feeling was stronger.

“Maybe… I will,” Tracee told him.

“Yeah, I’m waiting.”

“ _Hehe_ … You’ve gotten quite cheeky, _Sa-mu-el_.”

His name fell from her lips like a purr. His insides practically vibrated because of the way her voice had sounded. Her lips curled into a real smile and her face inched closer. Sam shut his eyes in anticipation while his mind hummed _yesyesyesyesyes_ in an eager chant. He felt her fingers leave his wrists only to slide up and curl around his hands. In response, his fingers curled around hers. A soft groan left him as Tracee slipped lower down his body, bottom inching towards his pelvis. Her forehead pressed against his, and he felt her breath caress and mingle with his.

_God show me the way cuz the Devil’s tryna break me down_

The sudden noise caused Sam’s eyes to snap open. Tracee, so close, had halted her movements and had seemed just as surprised by the interruption. She turned her head to the right where her buzzing cell phone lay on the end table between the beds. Sam turned his head as well, but to glare at the offending object. _Jesus walks_ —the ringtone continued, prompting Tracee to stiffen. She then, hastily, left her position on top of him and scrambled to reach her cell phone. He watched her flip open her phone, breathe deeply, and then put it up to her ear.

“Father…?” Sam sat up with a start. _Father_?! The man that had taken Tracee in as a child and had seemingly honed her skills so that she could be a sufficient Slayer was now on the phone. It had been nearly two months since they had started traveling together, but this was the first time contact had been made between father and daughter. Tracee smiled brightly as she listened. “Yes, I’m doing good. What about you? Are you in the country?” Apparently, he wouldn’t be able to hear the man’s words. “Oh… a few more weeks?” She paused, and then rolled her eyes. “Yes, I’m still doing the ritual. I’m fine.” Pursing her lips, she rolled her eyes again. “You like sound like mother.” An unexpected laugh burst from her lips. “Yes, sir, I know… But anyway, I have to tell you something. I… I moved out of my apartment a few months ago… _Shyeah_ , my things are back home. _Um_ … but I’m not.” Her brow furrowed as her hand reached up to rub her neck. “A few friends and I decided to go on a road trip. That’s why I haven’t been using—yes, I know I should have called, but-” For several moments, she did not speak. Then she sighed, shutting her eyes. “Yes, father… Yes. I will be careful. No, you don’t have to—I said I’m fine. Okay… Okay… Tell mother I love you both. _Mm_. Bye.”

Tracee sighed again, lowering her arms and snapping the phone shut. “Everything okay…?” Sam asked, curious. He had only heard her side of the conversation, but judging from how it had ended, it hadn’t seemed to be good news. Brown eyes slowly turned in his direction. Then, with a huff, she sat down on Dean’s bed.

“My father’s coming home in a few weeks. He expects me to be there when he arrives,” she answered.

“But that means…” Sam trailed off, unable to keep his disappointment to himself.

“It doesn’t mean anything,” Tracee assured him. “I wanted to talk to him in person anyway to see if he knows anything about my being a Slayer—if he even knows what that means.”

“But you’d have to leave, wouldn’t you?”

“What? No,” she replied, furrowing her brow. “I’m an adult, and I can do what I want. We’ll just make a pit stop, talk with him, and then be on our merry way. He just wants to check in—that’s all.” Sam couldn’t hold back the sigh of relief. Tracee smiled tenderly, and the fluttery feeling returned to his stomach. “Not to worry, Samuel Winchester. I’m not going anywhere.”

“… Good—I’m… _We’re_ not done with you just yet,” he said. She chuckled lightly and rolled her eyes.

“Good to know.”

 

0-0

 

After doing a sweep of the victims’ house, with no help from a hungover Dean Winchester, the three had headed to an auction house. Reason being, the items inside had been missing, and with no viable evidence of a haunting, they had decided to check the items that had been shipped off after their deaths. The trail had led them to an upstanding auction house, and Tracee was feeling all sorts of out of place. Not only were they all dressed in jean material, but the two brothers hadn’t even tried to wear pants without holes in them. Their arrival had garnered more than a few suspicious stares. Some even had the nerve to snort at their appearance. She hoped this little excursion didn’t end up with police showing up. Despite what she had told Sam last night, her father would not take too kindly if her friends had gotten her into trouble with the law. The word _forbid_ would definitely leap from her father’s mouth in an uncontrolled rant.

“Silent auctions, estate sales,” Dean grumbled, scooping up an appetizer from a silver tray on a long table of food. Admittedly, she had thought about doing the same, but she had resigned herself to waiting until they found a motel. She had seen caviar and that had turned her entire appetite off. “It’s like a garage sale for W.AS.P.s if you ask me.” A fair assessment considering they were in the midst of a higher class. It wasn’t any different. Well, besides the classical music playing in the background. Tracee didn’t agree with flaunting one’s own wealth. That just made it easier for someone to think they have a right to steal it.

“May I help you gentlemen?” A voice, belonging to a man, had caught their attention, causing the three to halt and turned towards the voice. He was an older man, wearing a black suit and tie. Tracee tried not to immediately judge, but the pinched look on his face told her that he had immediately judged them. The man appeared as though it pained him just to speak to them. More than likely, she would asking the Lord to give her more strength with this encounter. The man stared pointedly at Dean, who had been smacking away at whatever he had shoved in his mouth.

“I’d like some champagne, please,” Dean requested. Tracee swallowed hard in an attempt not to laugh outright. Trust him to think this man was a server. Well, honestly, the man did look the part. Aside from the posh expression, anyway. Clearly, though, the man had not served anyone a day in his life.

“He’s _not_ a waiter…!” Sam muttered. He then cleared his throat, probably looking apologetic. Tracee hadn’t turned to see. The brothers had stood on either side of her. She knew that it was too easy to overlook her due to her height, especially standing next to them, but this man hadn’t so much as glanced in her direction—hadn’t acknowledged her presence at all. She forced a smile on her face as Sam introduced himself as Sam Connors. He held out his hand for a standard greeting, but the man merely stared at his hand, baffled disgust barely concealed. Only then did he notice her. He raised a brow, but said nothing. Her fake smile grew just a bit. “This is my brother, Dean, and…”

Sam faltered when Tracee bowed her head demurely. “I am Tracee Connors of _Connors Limited_ ,” she introduced herself, not bothering for a handshake. “Our father wishes to perhaps form a partnership, and so he has sent me in his stead as I am his heir.”

“Father…?” the man repeated, showing a bit of amusement as he gave them all a once over again. “Pardon me if I don’t see a resemblance.”

“If you must know, they were adopted,” Tracee explained, keeping the smile on. Inside, she felt quite annoyed. “Forgive our attire. _Connors Limited_ has a… unique approach when it comes dealing art. Hands on, you understand.”

“Right.” Perhaps he hadn’t believed her, but surely the way she had spoken had given him pause. If that pause was enough for them to seek a cursed object in the midst of the murdered couple’s belongings, then grinning and bearing it would be worth it. “I’m Daniel Blake. This is my auction house.” Tracee knew he hadn’t been just a curious guest. Perhaps it had been a pain to approach such ruffians, but he had an obligation, so of course he had come over. “Now, despite your father’s behest, this is a private showing, and I do not recall _Connors_ on our guest list.”

“We’re _there_ , Chuckles,” Dean retorted, having swallowed the food in his mouth. “You just need to take another look. Our dad wouldn’t just send us to a _private showing_ without making sure we’re on the list. Unless you want to tell me that you’ve gone to everyone here to connect their faces to names because its protocol, you need to check that list again.” He grabbed a glass of champagne from a passing waiter’s tray. “Why are you harassing us, anyway? Is it because _we’re black_?!”

Tracee couldn’t decide whether to stare in mute horror at the older Winchester or laugh loudly in the silence that followed. And there was silence. Even the classical music had stop. Most, if not all, eyes had shifted towards them because Dean’s audacious question had been borderline shouting. “Oh my God…” she muttered softly, voice strained due to her trying to keep a belly-aching laugh inside. The worse—or best—part had to be Dean giving the most offended look, staring the owner of the auction house into submission. It worked. The man sputtered indignantly, completely red-faced, before turning on his heel and leaving the trio. Shortly after, the music began again, and quiet murmurs filled the auction house. “ _Seriously_ , Dean…?!” Tracee managed to hiss out before giggles overwhelmed her. Proud of his actions, the older Winchester grinned.

“It _worked_ , didn’t it?” he asked. 

“You’re a goddamn idiot, Dean,” Sam remarked, shaking his head. Tracee snorted lightly, and then pressed her palm hard against her mouth.

“Is it because we’re black! _Hehehehe_!” she repeated, trying desperately to contain her laughter.

“You’re the one that said we’re adopted,” Dean mentioned, poking her side. Tracee snorted again and hastily moved away from him. “I was just going with it. Why didn’t you just say you were married to one of us? Would have been easier to believe.”

“ _Hm_ … I honestly didn’t think about that,” she confessed. “Maybe next time I’ll be married to one of you.” Clearing her throat, and wondering why she felt hot all of a sudden, she began to walk again. “Let’s find this cursed object before _Jeeves_ comes back with an actual list.” Dean drained the rest of his champagne, and then set the glass down before he and Sam began following her. It wasn’t long before they came across items marked with Telesca estate. The items seemed to be grouped together, so hopefully they would find what they needed before security showed up.

Eventually, the three of them had come together again, all drawn to the creepy family portrait. It, too, had been marked as an item that had been owned by the Telesca couple. A shiver ran down her spine as Tracee continued to stare at the painting. She crossed her arms, wondering how anyone could willingly buy something that seemed to follow your every movement. She couldn’t imagine waking up in the middle of the night to see this certain portrait hanging on the wall. She would probably develop a nervous tic in her eye.

“A fine example of American Primitive, wouldn’t you say?” The soft voice of a woman caught her attention, drawing her eyes away from the painting. Tracee turned and looked up, eyeing the woman on the spiral staircase. Clad in a semi-modest black dress—as her neck, shoulders and arms were shown—and matching heels, the woman, appearing in their age group—the first she had seen since arriving to this garage sale—smiled coyly before continuing her way down the stairs. She approached them slowly, reminding Tracee of a feline’s walk. Her dark hair was pulled back into an elegant bun with curled bangs framing her face. She wore nude makeup with a hint of silver in her eyeshadow, bringing out the grey in her hazel eyes. The wine-colored lipstick was a bit heavy, but did not take away from her overall beautiful appearance. She was pretty, Tracee decided.

“Well, I’d say it’s more Grant Wood than Grandma Moses…” Sam remarked as she came to a stop. He turned to look at her. The woman lowered her gaze for a moment, appearing caught. “But you knew that. You just wanted to see if _I_ did.” Tracee turned confused eyes to Dean to see if he was just as lost as she was. Of course, Dean hadn’t appeared to follow the conversation either.

“Guilty,” the woman admitted, showing her teeth in a sheepish smile. “And clumsy. I apologize.” She dipped her chin in greeting. “I’m Sarah Blake.”

“Hello, Sarah,” Tracee greeted, drawing her gaze away from Sam. “I am Tracee… Connors.” She received an indulgent smile in return. “These are my art dealers—Dean and Sam Connors.” She was going to ignore the way the oldest brother had found more food and had stuffed his cheeks full. At least he had the decency to give a nod of acknowledgement.

“Dean,” Sarah acknowledged him right back. “Can we get you more mini-quiche?” The humor was there, but there was no underlying pompous tone like Daniel Blake.

“I’m good, thanks,” Dean stated. Tracee resisted the urge to cuff the back of his head. Before this case was done, she had a feeling it would happen.

“So… You’re all Connors? Any relation?” Sarah continued, shifting her gaze back to the tallest member of the group.

“ _Uh_ … Siblings,” Sam said, apparently not sold on her improvising prompt. Cute. So bloody cute. Sarah’s eyebrows raised. “Adoption,” he supplied, uneasily. “Me and my brother were adopted into the Connors’ family.”

“That’s something you don’t see every day,” Sarah commented, but she seemed to believe it easily enough.

“How about you?” Tracee asked. “Any relation to Daniel Blake?”

“My dad,” she answered.

“How fortunate it is that his looks didn’t pass to you.” At her thinly veiled compliment, Sarah’s cheeks turned a darker shade of pink. She turned her eyes to the floor before focusing on Tracee again. “Since you are his daughter, though, can I assume you know something about the Telesca estate?” Sarah cleared her throat, tucking a bang behind her ear.

“It’s pretty grisly if you ask me,” she said. Tracee raised a curious brow. “Selling their things so soon, I mean.” Sarah cleared her throat again. “But Dad’s right about one thing—sensationalism brings the crowds. Even the rich ones.”

“A tale as old as time,” Tracee agreed, smirking.

Sarah chuckled lightly in response. “Since you’re interested, would you like to see the provenances?” she asked.

“Is that possible?” Sam spoke up. “We’d love to see them.” Sarah opened her mouth to respond again, but a familiar voice interrupted before she could begin. Daniel had returned, having gained more of a pinched look. He flat out told them they would not be able to see the backgrounds of any of the items from the Telesca household. With his smug appearance, it was clear that he had checked his damned list. “Why not?” Sam asked, frowning.

“You’re not on the guest list,” he retorted. Tracee had to stop herself from rolling her eyes. What was it with this man and that list? “And I think it’s time for you to leave.” He turned narrowed eyes to Dean. Clearly, the oldest one of them had gained much of his ire.

“Well, we don’t need to be told twice,” Dean muttered, picking right up on Daniel’s attitude.

“Apparently, you _do_ ,” he replied in a clipped tone.

“Alright, it’s okay,” Sam appeased, throwing his hands up in a surrendering gesture. “We don’t want any trouble. We’ll go.” His comforting hand pressed against Tracee’s lower back, urging her to follow his disgruntled brother. Keeping a snort to herself, she allowed the gentle nudge towards the exit.

Fifteen minutes later, they found themselves outside of their motel room. Dean fumbled with the key to unlock the door while balancing his bags. With her earphones in, she didn’t bother to try to listen to the small conversation between brothers. Instead, Tracee hummed along with the lyrics, waiting patiently for the door to be opened. Finally, Dean pushed it open and went inside. She followed suit, eyes doing a scan of their temporary residence. Out of all the motels she had been in so far, this had been the most unique one yet. It was like someone had sucked the color out of the 70s. Disco-themed. She whistled.

“The places you guys bring me to,” Tracee mentioned, sarcasm dripping. She walked further into the room, pulling her earphones out. She dropped her bags down on the left bed, the one closer to the bathroom.

“What was the… providence?” Dean questioned, depositing his own bags on the right bed.

“ _Provenance_ ,” Sam corrected, placing his bags beside hers. The three of them began unpacking as he explained to his brother the meaning behind the word. “We can use them to track the history of the pieces—see if anything’s got a freaky past.”

“Well, we’re not getting anything out of Chuckles,” Dean replied. “But, _uh_ …” He snapped his fingers, apparently recalling her name. “ _Sarah_ —she might help.”

“Yeah, maybe you can get her to write it on a cocktail napkin,” Sam muttered.

“Not me,” Dean laughed.

“Oh, no, no, no—pickups are _your_ thing, Dean.”

“It wasn’t _my_ butt she was checking out.”

Tracee halted her movements, and then turned to the oldest Winchester. “ _Who’s_ butt was she checking out?” she asked. “Because neither one of you have one to look at in the first place.”

“Excuse you!” Dean exclaimed, appearing affronted. “I can make mine _dance_!”

“Please don’t,” Sam sighed out. “It doesn’t matter whose butt she was looking at. It’d be wrong to use her to get information.”

“We use people all the time to get information, Samuel. This would be no different,” Tracee pointed out. “And if she _did_ check out your nonexistent butt, then it looks like it’s up to you.” Instead of laughing at her joke, Sam appeared very uncomfortable with the request. “It’s just dinner with a hidden motivation. Isn’t that what all dates are like?”

“What kind of dates have you been on?” Dean asked. She merely grinned at him. “Whatever. Anyway, we all have to take one for the team.” He flipped his phone open, stretching his hand to give it to his brother. “Call her, Sammy.” Sam sighed again. His eyes glanced her way. The uncomfortable expression did not fade even as Sarah picked up the line.

 

0-0

 

After spending an embarrassingly long time asking Sarah Blake out, Sam had spent about forty minutes getting changed for his date. As soon as he had reluctantly left, Dean and Tracee stared at one another from their positions on opposite beds. They had been in identical white bathroom robes when Sam had finally exited the bathroom. He should have been more suspicious of their attire. For as soon as they had heard the Impala start up, they had nearly jumped from the bed and shimmied out of their bathrobes to reveal formal clothing underneath. Tracee had quickly applied makeup and pulled off her nightcap to show her curled hair while he had pulled out his ‘FBI’ shoes and black heels for her. In minutes, they had been out the door to follow Sam to the restaurant. They, of course, had to walk, but fortunately, it was New York, so they hadn’t necessarily needed the car.

Currently, they were sitting in a booth, Dean peering over to see Sam and Sarah sitting at a table across from one another. Their date seemed to be going nowhere at this point. He couldn’t hear, but their mouths hadn’t moved since he and Tracee had arrived five minutes ago. Oh, his poor brother. Under normal circumstances, he would have never thought to spy on Sam’s date, but Tracee’s presence had given him just the right amount of motivation. She had protested, at first, but then eventually caved in the longer Sam had spent in the bathroom, mumbling to himself. _Just to make sure he can get the information_ , she had whispered, and then had begun searching for the forest green long-sleeved dress that hugged her body and showed her legs just right—her words not his.

Dean relaxed in his seat, knowing they were going to be here at this fancy restaurant for a while. He looked over at Tracee to see her, eyes skimming the menu. She hadn’t eaten lunch, so their table would more than likely be covered with food by the time dinner was over. He had already ordered drinks— _Merlot_ red wine. It would go with anything she picked. He had completely ignored the knowing grin Tracee had given as he had ordered. If he had known she and Cassie would become ‘besties,’ he wouldn’t have introduced them. Tracee probably knew a substantial amount of hidden things about him because of his ex.

“So, Trace…” Dean began. The tiny tank hummed in response, blinked, and then set down her menu. “I couldn’t help but notice earlier.” Her brown eyes looked his way. She raised both eyebrows, prompting him to continue. “You talked differently while we were at that auction house. It’s like you were one of them.”

“Noticed that, did you?” she asked, grinning. “Yes, that was different. It’s engrained in me, I guess. Years of attending social gatherings with my father is to blame.”

“Social gatherings for the _rich_? You come from money?”

“ _Nah_ , but my father is an accountant to large corporations—most of them being overseas,” Tracee explained. “Sometimes, he would bring me along to dinner parties, especially if there were foreign clients.” Dean nodded in understanding. “I’m surprised you don’t have a rich person persona since you’ve been at this life a lot longer. The rich get haunted, too, right?”

“Oh, we tended to stay away from things that could potentially bring in the media,” he stated. “No hunter wants publicity—good or bad.” Tracee chuckled and nodded her head. “Speaking of your father… Sam told me he called. You want to head back that way once this job’s done?”

“Don’t know,” she muttered. “Father said he’d call again once he was back in the country. We don’t have to go right away.”

“Just to make sure, you are coming back with us once this talk is done, right?”

“I’m not going to have to keep reassuring you two, am I?” Tracee leaned forward like she was about to tell him a secret. Dean found himself leaning forward, too. “I am not going to ditch you two. I care about you both. Who knows what troubles you’ll have without me?” Her lips curled into a smirk. Dean chuckled, and then reached for his glass of water. “Besides, the talk might turn into an argument.”

“You think daddy might have known about you being all with the slayage?”

“I’m… beginning to think he might not be just an accountant,” Tracee admitted. “He got a little pissy during the call and asked if I was still wearing my necklace.” Her fingers lightly touched the pendant that hung from her neck. “He probably knows something, and I understand why he would keep things from me, but… it still feels like I’m out of place… learning that father purposely hadn’t mentioned or warned me about this life.”

“Yeah… I know the feeling,” Dean commented. He drank all of the water in his glass, suddenly feeling thirsty. The two sat in silence, Tracee absentmindedly clutching the pendent. “So… you paying for all this, right?” She dropped her hand and shot him an annoyed look. Dean merely grinned at her before shifting his gaze over to where his brother and date were. “Oh, looks like they’re finally talking.” Tracee made a noise of curiosity, probably looking in their direction, too. “And judging by that grimace on her face, Sammy has made it awkward.”

“What are you talking about?” Tracee murmured. “They’re just talking… Although, that is a grimace if I ever saw one. No way can he make this awkward when she clearly likes him.”

“Are we talking about the same guy?” Dean snorted lightly. Tracee turned his way, frowning. “The awkwardness is part of his charm. Certain girls—not many—completely fall for it. They’re not used to it, so there will always be grimaces, but eventually they come around, finding his attempts at flirting endearing instead of creepy.”

“What are you talking about, Dean?” she repeated, expression twisting into real confusion. “Samuel’s like the smoothest white boy I’ve ever met.”

“You’ve met _me_!”

“I know, and I still stand by what I said,” Tracee declared, crossing her arms and looking very firm in her decision. Dean returned her look of confusion, honestly not being able to think of a single instance that his brother had been _smooth_. No way, and definitely not better than him. The thought was laughable, especially since he could remember Sam spilling drinks all over this cute red-head’s top and consequently having the shit smacked out of him. No. Ever since Sam had first asked him how to talk with girls, his little brother had been a giant ball of awkward. _Flirting_ was just something he had never been good at. So why did Tracee have it in her head that Sam was this master of seduction?

Not being able to help himself, Dean guffawed, and then immediately ducked his head, realizing that Sam would be able to recognize his laugh. Once he calmed down, he saw that Tracee had not joined him. “Come on, Trace…! This is _Sammy_ we’re talking about here,” he crooned. “He’s the whitest white boy who ever-” He looked up in thought. “-whited…” he finished lamely, not being able to come up with an perfect verb at the moment. Tracee’s expression remained unimpressed. “When he flirts, girls ask him if he’s okay or if he’s _lost_. I’ve pretty sure he’s only had two girlfriends in his entire life, maybe three, but that’s a big maybe.”

“And I’m pretty sure _you’ve_ only had _one_ girlfriend—what’s your point?” Tracee’s voice had begun to shift to her British accent. For some reason, she had gotten upset, and he had no clue why. And that gut punch— _ouch_. “You mean to tell me that Samuel turns into awkward boy whenever he flirts with women?”

“That’s _exactly_ what I’m saying.”

“There’s no touching or intense eye contact? No coaxing words with an underlying sexual intent?”

“What? Sammy? _No_! He’s not confident enough with women to attempt that unless he has permission. I’ve seen this train wreck too many times to count.”

For a moment, Tracee merely stared back at him, disbelief clear in her eyes. Then her gaze shifted to the right. “Oh my God…” She rubbed her temple and shook her head. “ _Oh_ my God. I’m an idiot. I’m a bloody idiot.”

“Trace…”

“ _Dwaesseoyo_ …!” She shifted her body completely away from him, but the pout was visible. Dean had no idea what she had told him, but it sounded similar to when she would tell him to _piss off_ , so he was going to let that subject drop. Turning his head, he looked over to where his brother and Sarah sat. Fortunately, they remained ignorant of their presence. However, now they were smiling at each other, so Sarah must have been one of those girls that fell for Sam’s awkward charm. If he played his cards right, Sarah would willingly give up the providences. “It’s _provenances_ , Dean.” Oh, he must have said that out loud. “Do we really need to be here anymore then? She’s obviously into his… his awkward flirting.”

“Are you kidding? I’m definitely ordering something. I’m not a _cheap_ date. You play _your_ cards right, and I might just give up the goodies.” He winked at her. Tracee scoffed and rolled her eyes at his joke, but a crack of a smile had appeared. Good. He didn’t want to sit across from a moody Slayer. Dean lifted his hand and snapped his fingers. “ _Yo_! Waiter!”

 

0-0

 

Dean sat on his bed, shaking his head in response to the very brief summary of how the date went. Honestly, Sam hadn’t said anything other than ‘I’ve got them’ once he had returned to the motel. For the most part, he attempted to ignore his brother. Sooner or later, though, he would start the interrogation. That was the reason he had immediately began to cross reference the information he had compiled once he had returned. Tracee was relaxing on their bed, seemingly not paying attention to the conversation. She had volunteered to sharpen their blades on a whetstone—her sword included. She hadn’t said two words to him since he had gotten back. Sam hoped she hadn’t taken this ‘date’ seriously. But as she had remained mostly silent—save the knife in her hand scraping against the whetstone—her thoughts on the matter remained unclear.

“So…” Dean began. Here it comes. If his brother had noticed the eye roll, he hadn’t let on. “She just handed the providences over to you?”

“Provenances,” Sam corrected wearily. How many times would have to provide the pronunciation? “And yes, we went back to her place. I got a copy of the papers. And I left.”

“Seriously?” Dean asked, incredulous. “You didn’t have to con her or do any… _special_ favors, or anything like that?” Sam huffed in protest, looking towards Tracee. Her eyes were focused on her own task. Dean laughed to himself, causing Sam to shake his head and focus back on the papers in his hand. “When this whole thing’s done, we could stick around for a bit.”

“Why…?” he asked, clearly annoyed.

“So you can take her out again,” Dean answered as though it were clear as day. “It’s obvious you’re into her. Even _I_ can see that.”

“Can’t see shit…” Sam muttered.

“What was that?” Dean asked.

“I think I’ve got something,” he continued, abruptly changing the subject. His brother really couldn’t see anything. If he truly had seen, then he’d already know where the aim was focused. Tracee Noland. No other woman would do. Not even someone as pretty as Sarah Blake. Maybe if he had met the brunette first. Maybe if he hadn’t met Tracee at all. But now… He had gotten a taste of Cherry, and he did not want to let that go. Besides, being with Sarah tonight had only reminded him how frazzled and incompetent he could get around gorgeous women. Tracee had been the only beautiful woman that hadn’t made him feel like that. The only one he had been able to tell about Jessica. Right. No one else would do.

Speaking of, Tracee stood up, following Dean. She stood on her the tips of her toes beside his brother so that she could read as well. Sam reached over to where their dad’s journal lay. He grabbed it, and then turned to give it to Tracee just as Dean read out loud when the painting had been created. Then he read who had purchased it. “Peter Sims was murdered the same year he purchased it,” Trace confirmed. The two went back and forth with the information, coming to the same conclusion Sam had. “So what happened after 1970?”

“The painting was stored,” Sam answered her question. “No more murders. Until the Telescas bought it at a charity auction.” She nodded in understanding. They had found the object they had been seeking. Now, all they had to do was get rid of it. Hopefully that would stop the murders. “So do you think it’s haunted or cursed?”

“Probably haunted,” Tracee replied with a shrug.

“Either way, its toast,” Dean stated.

Over an hour later, they were back in the motel room, getting ready for bed. The painting had been stolen, burned, and completely destroyed. The job was over, and they could leave the city come morning. Dean yawned loudly, flopping down on his bed. Apparently, he wasn’t going to bother changing. Tracee had gone into the bathroom to change into her night clothes. She hadn’t gotten the chance to hit something this time around, but she hadn’t appeared to be agitated by like last time. Still… _Something_ was off.

Sam ran a hand through his hair, heading to the light switch. After flipping the switch, he waited until his eyes adjusted to the dark before moving slowly back over to the bed. He heard Dean’s muffled ‘Night’ as he laid down. Turning over on his side, he scooted until there was an adequate space for Tracee. A yawn escaped his mouth just as the bathroom door opened. Tracee walked out, keeping the light on so she could see her way to their bags. After putting away her clothes and such, she went back over to the bathroom door. Arm reaching in the room, her hand shut off the light. Not long after, she climbed into bed with him.

With a heavy sigh, she settled down beside him. Sam was quick to wrap his arms around her. “Hey,” he muttered, nose lightly touching the back of her neck. She shivered in response before completely relaxing. He smiled, feeling the same bit of shivers. “You doing okay?” Tracee gave a noncommittal hum. “You didn’t get to hit something this time, so… if you want, we can go dancing. I promise I won’t ignore your calls anymore.” Finally, she gave him a slight laugh. “I mean, if you don’t mind having a giraffe as a dance partner.”

“I wouldn’t mind,” she told him in a whisper, giggle in her words. For a time, they were silent, waiting for sleep to claim them. However, moments passed and another heavy sigh left her. “Hey… Samuel…?”

“Yeah?”

“… If… If Sarah had called… would you have danced with her?”

Sam didn’t think it had been a straight question. There had been a hidden question within her question. “I… don’t normally dance with too many people,” he replied. “It doesn’t take a simple call to get me to dance.”

“ _Oh_? Is that right?”

“ _Mm_ ,” Sam nodded his head. His mouth moved closer to her ear. He breathed against the crown of her ear, causing a shudder. He smiled again, feeling her body nearly vibrate beneath his touch. “There’s only one call in particular that I’m interested in anyway.”

“… _Oh_ ,” Tracee repeated, sounding out of breath.

“You good now?”

“ _Shyeah_ … Real good.”

 

0-0

 

The next morning all too soon, and of course the best laid plans had gone awry. Dean had, for some unexplained reason, had taken his wallet on the heist yesterday night. That had led the three to nearly destroying their motel room in search of the damned thing. However, after a good thirty minutes of searching, the wallet hadn’t reappeared. They had had no choice but to pack up and head back to the auction house. If the wallet had been found, along with the discovery of the missing painting, fingers would be pointed, police would be involved, and they would be on the run from the law. Tracee groaned in frustration as she looked once again looked near the spiral staircase. The brothers were a little ways off, double checking around the items. She would wait for them before going up. Seriously, though, if they got caught, that would be the end of this road trip.

“Hey, guys…!” Immediately, her entire body went rigid at the sound of Sarah Blake’s voice. She turned to see that the woman had been focused on Dean and Sam. She had caught them mere search, but judging from the smile on her pretty face, she hadn’t realized what they had been doing. In a nervous voice, Sam greeted her in return. Sighing lightly, Tracee walked over to them. Sensing her approach, Sarah’s eyes darted in her direction. With a form fitting black turtleneck and grey khakis, she appeared more casual than the last time she had been seen. Her outfit did not change how pretty she was. “Tracee,” she greeted with a nod and a brighter smile. “What are you three doing here?”

“ _Um_ … We… _uh_ …” Sam seemed to be having trouble coming up with a believable story. Despite herself, Tracee found herself frowning. His awkward floundering in Sarah’s presence had caused to think about what Dean had told her last night. “We… We were leaving town, and… and stopped by to, you know, say goodbye.”

“What are you talking about, Sam?” Dean walked over to stand by their side. Tracee couldn’t help but notice the wide grin on his face. She instantly recognized it as a combination of playful and ‘I gotcha.’ “We’re sticking around for another day or two.” With a blooming realization, the frown on Tracee’s face became more prominent. Not that anyone realized because Sarah was looking at Sam. He was staring at Dean in disbelief. And Dean was too busy pulling his not missing wallet from the inside of his jacket. “Oh, Sam, by the way…” He held up a twenty dollar bill to his brother. “Here’s the twenty bucks I owe you.” Sam stared at the bill for split second longer than necessary before snatching the money from his smug brother.

Tracee imagined the glare on her face mirrored the one on Sam’s. They had both reached the same realization. Dean had set the whole thing up so that he could have an excuse to bring them back to the auction house. His misguided intentions were obvious, and they should have realized it sooner. Before Sarah had shown up. “Dean…!” Tracee tried to speak, but he looped his arm with hers and began dragging her away.

“Well, we’ll, _uh_ , leave you crazy kids alone,” he told them, ignoring her all together. “We have to go… do something… somewhere. Let’s go, Trace.” She allowed herself to be pulled along only because she was trying hard to keep her anger in check. Dean had only been trying to help. Under different circumstances, his actions would be _fine_. As his brother, he believed that Sam needed to be pushed. Tracee understood perfectly. But Dean was also ignoring the protests all because he believed that Sam was interested in Sarah. From what she had gathered last night, that was not the case. So what’s they were outside near the Impala, and he had let go of her, Tracee did not stop herself from cuffing the back of Dean’s head. “ _OW_! What was that for?!”

He glared at her, rubbing the back of his head as though she had actually hurt him. “I will _not_ be dragged into your shenanigans without permission again!” Tracee told him, folding her arms over her chest. Okay, that hadn’t been what she had truly wanted to say, but it had been a start. Dean visibly pouted at her glare. “I thought we were going to be _arrested_!”

“I’m not an idiot, Trace-”

“That remains to be seen."

“-I’m not just gonna bring IDs—no matter how fake—with us when we’re trying to steal something.” Apparently, he was going to completely ignore the dig. “I had to do _something_ to bring him back here. And yeah, I should have let you in on my plan, but it all turned out good.”

“No, Dean, it didn’t!” Tracee retorted. “Your brother thinks Sarah’s hot! Hell, _I_ think she’s hot! That doesn’t mean we want to _get_ with her!”

“… I _knew_ you were flirting with her,” Dean accused. He raised both eyebrows and his grin came back full force. “Actually, she might be into _you_ , too.” Tracee rolled her eyes and gave him the most exaggerated grouse that she could muster. “Look—Trace, this will be good for him. I know it. If he doesn’t go looking, then he’ll never get over Jessica. So if he needs a little shove in the right direction, I’ll be more than happy to help.” Tracee opened her mouth, prepared to _let him have it_ , but before she could start, she noticed Sam coming at them from the corner of her eye. She immediately snapped her mouth close and swallowed the rant. Honestly, she had no right to get self-righteous about something she had only a vague notion about.

“We’ve got a _huge_ problem…!” Sam exclaimed, panic clear in his voice and jerky movements. Dean turned sharply towards him and seriously asked if his brother had failed to get the digits. It took her entire being not to smack the back of his head again. “No, Dean!” Sam sounded just as irritated as she felt. “The painting’s _back_!”

“What?! What do you mean the painting’s back?!” Tracee questioned in alarm.

“I _mean_ , I just saw it getting moved in the auction house—completely intact!” Sam replied. Eyes wide and face flushed, he seriously looked rattled by the discovery. “I don’t get it, Dean, we burned the damned thing!”

“Yeah, thank you, Captain Obvious,” Dean retorted. He sighed. “Okay, so we just have to figure out another way to get rid of it. Any ideas?”

“It must be haunted, after all,” Tracee commented. “In that case, it means the people _in_ the painting might be coming out to play.”

“Yeah, in almost all the lore about haunted paintings, it’s always the subjects of the painting,” Sam told them, outwardly calming down.

“Yeah. Alright,” Dean muttered, nodding his head. “So we need to find out everything there is to know about that creepy ass family in the creepy ass painting. What were their names again?”

“Merchant, I believe,” Tracee answered. She huffed a little. “So I guess we’re sticking around a few more days, after all, _huh_?”

“Yup…!” Dean stated with a shit eating grin on his face.

Tracee resisted smacking the back of his head again.

 

0-0


	14. Encouragement

Tracee laid on Dean’s bed, barely keeping track of the latest argument between the two brothers. They had come back to their motel room, after finding a quaint little bookstore and gathering more information on the Merchant family. They had been, supposedly, murdered by the head of the family before he offed himself in the same way. So now, the working theory was that Isaiah, as a malevolent spirit, had been killing off anyone who had purchased the portrait. His profession of being a barber of his time hadn’t helped his case either. Everyone from that time period had believed the man to have been the murderer. The newspaper article certainly had been biased. She had read the article over a dozen times now. Tracee couldn’t quite put her finger on it, but something was strange about this case. Something didn’t make sense—she just didn’t know what just yet.

“I’m telling you, man, I’m sure of it!” Sam’s voice, having been louder than before, snapped her out of her thoughts. Her eyes shifted from the words of the copied article to the two brothers. They had been sitting at the table, going back and forth about the painting. She wasn’t sure why Dean had been so disagreeable about it. She was certain he hadn’t analyze the painting at the auction house—not the way Sam had. She had stared at the painting herself, but couldn’t remember certain details about it—only that it had been creepy. “The painting at the auction house—the dad’s looking down. The paper here—he’s looking out! The painting _has_ changed!”

“Alright, alright— _fine_! Don’t give yourself a hernia,” Dean conceded defeat. He slid the copy of the portrait back over to his brother. “If you’re right then maybe something else about the painting has changed. Like some clues that can help us figure out how to destroy it.”

“What? Like a _Da Vinci Code_ deal?”

“I don’t… know. I’m still waiting on the movie for that one,” Dean admitted. Tracee snorted lightly in amusement. “Anyway, we’ve gotta get back in to see that painting.” He stood up from the chair only to throw himself backwards onto the bed. Scowling, Tracee waited until she stopped bouncing before sharply turning to glare at him. He merely grinned at her, folding his arms over his chest. Rolling her eyes, she returned her attention back to the article. However, she did shove at his feet, which were crossed at his ankles. She heard him blow a raspberry her way. She ignored it. “Besides,” Dean continued when she hadn’t responded to his childish antics. “This gives you more time to crush on your girlfriend.” Without her mind’s command, her fingers curled around the paper like a feline’s claw in its prey.

“Dude. _Enough_ already,” Sam grumbled. Dean had the nerve to make a confused noise. “Ever since we’ve got here, you’ve done nothing but try to pimp me out to Sarah! Just back off, alright?”

“Well, you like her, don’t you?” Dean asked. Sam rolled his eyes and threw his hands in the air, muttering ‘he’s not listening’ under his breath. Tracee pursed her lips, forcing herself not to speak on the matter. “Alright then. You like her. She likes you. You’re both consenting adults.”

“That’s not the issue here, Dean! You’ve got it stuck in your head that I need this, and I _don’t_!” Sam retorted. He scoffed and glanced at the window. “You don’t get it. You don’t see it…” His jaw clenched and his sharp eyes turned back to his brother. “Why do you care if I hook up, anyway?”

“Well, maybe you wouldn’t be so cranky all the time,” Dean suggested.

“I’m not cranky!” he rejoined in quite the cantankerous manner. Once he realized what he had sounded like, he pressed his lips into a thin line. Then he scoffed, nervously scratching at his hand. “Not all the time,” he amended, sulkily. His gaze fell to the table. Tracee felt Dean shift behind her, probably into a sitting position. She glanced back just to make sure. Sure enough, the older Winchester had curled his leg inward while the other hung off the bed.

“Seriously, Sam, this isn’t about just hooking up, okay?” Dean continued, sounding a little more considerate. “I think that this Sarah girl would be good for you.” Sam merely groaned and rubbed at his forehead. “And I don’t mean any disrespect, but I’m-I’m sure this is about Jessica, right?” Tracee’s insides coiled unpleasantly at the mention of the woman Sam had intended to marry. She bit her lip and squeezed her eyes shut. Suddenly, a comforting hand slid up her back. She looked back at Dean, but his eyes were focused on his brother as though he hadn’t been consciously aware that his hand had moved to relax her. Shuddering internally at the warmth of his hand sliding up and down her back caused, Tracee felt the tension leave her body. “Now, I don’t know what it’s like to lose somebody like that… but…” His hand left her. “I would think that she would want you to be happy. God forbid—have fun once in a while. Wouldn’t she?”

Sam looked away, but the light reflected off the gathered tears in his eyes. Tracee swallowed hard, furrowing her brow. He wasn’t over her, she realized. Almost a year later, and he still- She shut her eyes for a moment. Of course he wasn’t. Sam was not the type of person to just get over the death of a loved one. His compassion and unwavering loyalty were just a few of the many traits she found attractive about him. He was still grieving, and he had every right to. “Yeah, I know she would,” Sam agreed softly. Tracee opened her eyes to see his somber half-smile. Wrenches of disappointment flooded through her. It still felt awful. Knowing the man she had seriously started to have affection for was still pining over his lost girlfriend—it felt _bloody awful_. God, why hadn’t she just stuck to the off-limits thing? Dean’s _advocating_ of Sarah wasn’t helping either. “You’re right, though.” Sam sighed, shifting his gaze to his brother. “Part of this is about Jessica. But not the main part.”

“What’s it about?” Dean questioned. Sam didn’t speak again, but his gaze dropped down, looking directly at her. Tensing, Tracee realized she had been staring hard. She had been _caught_ staring hard. Gritting her teeth, she focused—or tried to—on the words of the news article again. Behind her, Dean sighed lightly. “Yeah, alright,” he muttered, leaning back to lay flat on his back again. “Well, we’ve still gotta see that painting, which means you have to call Sarah, so…”

“Yeah…” Sam agreed. Tracee risked a peek in his direction again. He had stopped looking her way, which was a tremendous relief. He sighed again before picking up his phone and dialing out. Pressing the phone to his right ear, he waited for the line to pick up. “Sarah, hey…! It’s Sam.” He cleared his throat. “Hey, hi…” Oh, God, he _was_ an awkward boy, wasn’t he? He had greeted her three times already. “Good, good—yeah… What about you?” A pause on his end due to Sarah replying. “Yeah, good. Good. Really good.”

Internally, she winced. Well, a grimace might have flitted across her face, too. God, he was bad at this. No wonder Dean had laughed at her. The brother in question smacked the back of her leg, prompting Tracee to turn towards him. “Oh yeah,” he said. “ _Smoothest_ white boy indeed.” His sarcasm caused an eye roll. She mouthed for him to shut his face. Dean chuckled lightly, folding his arms again before paying attention to the one-sided conversation.

“So, _uh_ , listen… Me and my… my siblings were, _uh_ , thinking that maybe we’d like to come back in and look at the painting again,” Sam continued, hopefully not hearing Dean’s remark. He wasn’t looking at them, so there was a high chance that he hadn’t. “I think we are interested in buying it.” Again, he waited for a response. His eyes widened, looking quite alarmed. “What?!” He stood up. Once again, that panicked expression had returned. Tracee moved her body into a kneeling position on the bed while Dean sat up as well. “Who’d you sell it to?” She felt her own eyes widen in shock. Someone else had purchased that ugly thing? Then _oh no_ —someone else was in danger. “Sarah, I need an address right now!”

“Shit…!” Dean hissed, hurriedly moving from the bed. Tracee, too, scrambled to get up as she heard Sam’s urging for Sarah to give up the address. They were all clambering at the door by the time Sarah told him the address of the purchaser. Apparently, it belonged to a family friend. They raced to the Impala, and not bothering with formalities, they climbed in just as Sam hung up his phone. He quickly listed the address, and Tracee used her own phone to plug it in. Dean pulled off, listening for her directions.

By the time they had reached the address, there was another vehicle sitting idle in the driveway. Hastily, the three got out of the Impala once Dean shut off the engine. To her surprise, Sarah hoped out of the Jeep Liberty, looking all sorts of confused. “Sam, what’s happening?” she asked. While he didn’t flat out ignore the question, he did rush pass her to the porch, telling her that she should not have come. Dean and Tracee followed after with Sarah on their heels. They attempted to get in through the front door, but it was locked. Dean knocked loudly, but there was no response. “You said Evelyn might be in danger. What kind of danger?”

“I can’t knock this sucker down,” Dean stated. “Trace-”

“No,” she cut in. He looked back at her, confusion and disbelief in his eyes. She pointedly looked towards Sarah, whom was in the midst of interrogating Sam as he tried to find some way through the barred window. The older brother sighed, understanding showing in his expression.

“Looks like I’ve got to pick it then,” he muttered, pulling out the tools he needed. Sam came back over, waiting for the lock to be disengaged. Sarah stared, incredulous at the events unfolding before her eyes.

“You’re _burglars_?!”

“I wish it was that simple,” Sam mumbled. “Look—you should really wait in your car. It’s for your own good.”

Finally, Dean managed to successfully pick the lock and the door opened. Without hesitation, Tracee followed him inside, along with Sam and Sarah. She passionately declared that Evelyn was her friend and that she would _not_ sit by and wait in her car. Despite the situation, Tracee found herself smirking. She was certainly a brave one. Unwitting and naïve, but brave. Sarah called out to her friend, but did not get a response. The four moved through down the hallway to the first room on the left. They approached slowly seeing an older woman sitting in a chair. Still, she had not acknowledged their presence.

Tracee glanced up, seeing the painting hanging harmlessly on the adjacent wall above the fireplace. As Sam as told them, the painting did have the father—Isaiah—looking towards his daughter, not out like the copy of the original portrait. She licked her dry lips before focusing on the woman again. Despite the noise, Evelyn still had not turned to greet them or demand for them to explain how they had gotten in. “Evelyn…?” Sarah pushed pass them to reach the older woman. “It’s Sarah Blake. Are you alright?” She reached out to touch the woman’s shoulder.

“Sarah, don’t!” Sam tried to warn her, but the warning back too late. With a sickening squish, Evelyn’s head fell back, exposing the insides of her neck. Tracee placed a hand over her mouth as Sarah began screaming at the ghastly sight. Several chants of _OhmyGods_ left her mouth as Sam ushered her out of the room. A nudge from Dean tore her eyes away from the corpse. He gestured with a head nod towards the painting. Tracee followed his gaze to discover that the portrait had moved. Instead of looking towards the little girl, the man in the painting now looked straight out—seemingly straight at them.

“Don’t faint,” Dean told her.

“I’m _not_ …! Shut up!” she retorted. She swallowed hard, keeping her eyes on the painting. Seriously, how could any keep something so damn spine-chilling? It wrecked her nerves to the core, and despite her brave face, the revelation that the bloody thing moved— _killed_ —had her brain spinning in protest. “… But _please_ tell me we have water in the car.”

 

0-0

 

The next morning had come after a dreadfully long time. Sleep hadn’t come easy at all. Through the night, her tossing and turning had probably annoyed both brothers. Because of that, she had snuck up to the roof of the motel to practice with her katana. She hadn’t come back to the room until the two had just risen from their slumber. Tracee shook her head, just thinking about it. They were used to strange, gruesome things, and could sleep easy. Every time _she_ had shut her eyes, though, all she had imagined had been the painting. A frown worked its way on her face as she examined her freshly painted silver nails. Dean had mocked her for it, but concentrating on carefully painting her nails had always been as calming as meditation. She idly wondered when she would become used to such sights.

She lightly blew on her nails, glancing back at Sam. He had been pacing ever since she had gotten out of the shower. Hands on his hips, and looking all kinds of worried, he had barely acknowledged anything else. The very opposite of him, Dean sat at the mini bar with her, tapping away on Sam’s laptop. She hadn’t bothered to see what he had been doing. Honestly, she should be a little more wary about the situation, too. After all, they had left Sarah to talk to the police by herself. They had no way of knowing what she could say about their involvement. There was nothing else to do but sit around and wait for the inevitable.

Suddenly, there was a knock at the door. Surprisingly, she had not jumped at the sound. Well, it had been a soft knocking after all. So it probably hadn’t been the police. Sam went over to the door, sucking in a large breath before opening it. Sarah came through, stormy expression on her face. It was a stark contrast to her horrified and befuddled face from last night. She had had time to think about what happened, but she looked angry, not resigned. Sam hesitantly asked if she was all right. “No, _actually_ …! I just lied to the cops and told them I went to Evelyn’s _alone_ and found her like that!” Sarah exclaimed. Tracee breathed a sigh of relief as Sam said his thanks out loud. “Don’t thank me! I’m about to call them right back if you don’t tell me what the hell’s going on! Who’s killing these people?!”

Huh. It had seemed so long ago that Tracee had been in Sarah’s position, demanding answer from the Winchester brothers. Her demands hadn’t been about anything supernatural, but she couldn’t help but to sympathize with the pretty woman. She must have been so confused. When Sam turned in their direction for confirmation, Tracee nodded her head slightly. Perhaps telling Sarah was the solution that would help them solve this case. Sam tucked a hand in his pants pocket before facing Sarah again. “ _What_ ,” he murmured. Sarah merely looked more confused. “It’s not who, but _what’s_ killing those people.” She looked as though that the last thing she expected to hear—maybe not even at all. “Sarah, you saw that painting move.”

She chuckled without humor and began to pace. “No,” she denied, visibly working through what she had witnessed. “No, I was… was _seeing_ things. It’s _impossible_.”

“Oh, it looks like she’s going to be all denial girl,” Tracee remarked.

“Well, at least she didn’t faint,” Dean replied.

“Why you gotta bring up old shit?” Tracee flippantly complained. Dean grinned at her. Ignoring him, she stood up, walking over to the distraught woman. Tears had gathered, an indication that her mind did not want to believe any of this. “I know your mind is trying to find some logic to what happened last night. A trick of the light, your emotions getting the better of you—something that would explain what you saw. This might twist your entire world, but ghosts exist and that painting is haunted.” Another chuckle burst forth, but it was as watery as her eyes. Obviously, she was still holding on to what people considered normal. Tracee lightly grasped her hand, fingers intertwining with hers. Sarah gasped, looking from their connected hands, and then staring into her eyes. “I understand. It hasn’t been long since _I_ discovered another world existed. It took some time for me to believe those two weren’t cracked-ass white boys I needed to stay away from.”

“Hey…!” Dean protested, sounding offended.

Her little joke had gotten a light giggle out of Sarah, so she wouldn’t apologize. She sniffled and wiped under her eye. “You’re smart, girl, so I know you can work through this,” Tracee continued. “If it helps, just think of it as another ecosystem, long since lost to the public’s knowledge. Just because the majority doesn’t know about something doesn’t make it unreal or impossible. Think about it. You know the facts. The painting was involved with all three murders. You know the answer.” Sarah shut her eyes, taking in several breaths to steady herself. Once she was calm, she opened her eyes. Tracee chose to release her hand. “Now, we actually have to stop this malicious spirit before it kills someone else. Are you going to help or hinder our efforts?” Sarah visibly swallowed, and then pursed her lips. She nodded her head.

“Okay… Okay, I’m coming with you,” she announced. Her eyes still showed fear, but they also showed determination. Tracee smiled, showing her teeth. Unexpected, but she welcomed her resolute decision. They were obviously two different women, but she couldn’t help but think of the slight similarities.

“What? Tracee, no…! She might get hurt!” Sam rejoined. Tracee turned her eyes to him. The tall man frowned back at her. “You know this stuff can get dangerous.”

“And I also know a strong woman when I see one—she can handle it,” she replied with a careless shrug. “If she wants to come, it’s her decision. You don’t get to decide what’s best for her—neither of us do.” Sam furrowed his brow at her words, but made no further comment. Tracee shifted her gaze back to Sarah. “Whatever happens, _you_ have made the decision to come with us, yes?”

“Yes,” Sarah answered with a curt nod. “Me and my dad sold this painting. We might have gotten these people killed, and I can’t accept that without trying to fix it.” She released a shuddering breath. “I’m not saying I’m not scared—because I am scared as hell—but I’m not going to run and hide either.” She headed for the door and opened it. “So are we going or what?” she questioned with a smirk before heading out.

“… _Whoa_ , she is so goddamn cool…” Tracee commented, wistfully. She turned towards the two brothers, noting their baffled expressions. “Let’s _go_.” At her command, they snapped out of their stupor and gathered their jackets.

 

0-0

 

The familiar hum of the Impala’s engine as it came to a stop did little to halt the slight agitation Sam felt at the moment. This would be the third cemetery so far. After checking the painting at the latest victim’s house, Dean had discovered a painting within the painting. The changed image had been of a crypt with the spirit’s family name written above the entrance. That had been the reason that they had been searching cemeteries. So far, luck hadn’t been on their side. It had been a few hours already. The reason for his agitation had been partially due to the timeframe. A big part, however, had been the two women in the backseat.

Since Tracee had agreed to Sarah’s help, the taller woman had been asking all sorts of questions about what the brothers normally got up to before she had joined their road trip. Tracee had been completely honest, not sparing Sarah any of the gruesome details. For the most part, Sarah had been taking the details all in stride. Sometimes, though, he would catch a glimpse of her fearful expression. That had been fine. It had been expected. What Sam hadn’t expected had been Sarah taking comfort in clinging to Tracee.

Each time they had all exited the car, Sarah had looped her arm with Tracee, getting as close as possible for whispered conversations and giggles. The shorter woman had seemed unconcerned with the physical contact, and had participated in the unheard conversation. Sam supposed he could understand. People were naturally drawn to those that had had similar experiences. Between the three of them, Tracee was the one Sarah could relate most to, seeing as how it hadn’t been that long since her first encounter with the supernatural. But… He had wanted to use the cold as an excuse to hold Tracee’s hand like before in _Cape Girardeau_. With Sarah latching on to her, that wouldn’t be happening today. Honestly, he couldn’t wait for this particular job to be finished.

The four climbed out of the Impala. Already, Sam’s eyes darted around in search of a crypt-like structure. There were only tombstones as far as the eye could see. Again, it seemed that they would have to walk around. They began their search like the previous ones. With Sam and Dean walking side by side at the front, and Tracee and Sarah trailing behind them. After a few miles, Dean could no longer keep his irritation to himself. “This is the third boneyard we’ve checked,” he grumbled. “This ghost’s jerking us around!”

“That’s something I don’t get,” Tracee murmured. “What’s this guy’s motivation? It all seems like scrambled nonsense. He kills people when taken out of storage, but changes the aspects of the painting to leave behind clues. Why?”

“Maybe he can’t control it,” Sam suggested. “Maybe each time he comes out of the painting, something about the painting changes. A cause and effect type of deal. He probably isn’t purposely leaving clues behind.”

“Maybe…” Tracee replied, sounding thoughtful. “I kinda wish we had more information to go on.”

“… So… this is what you do for a living?” Sarah questioned. “Going around, solving supernatural mysteries?”

“For a living?” Tracee repeated. She then chuckled. “Like in an actual _job_? Oh yeah, we get paid, but I hear the retirement plan is _crap_.” Sarah laughed lightly at her joke. “Seriously, though, they don’t ask for monetary rewards. Might as well be a hobby for them.”

“Hey, you are one of _them_ , so shut up,” Dean retorted.

“What are you talking about, Dean? I do this out of the kindness of my heart—the right thing to do and whatnot!”

“You do it for the _research_ , you nerd.”

“He’s got you there, Tracee.”

“Ain’t nobody ask you, Samuel.”

Sam turned his head, glancing at her from the corner of his eye. She wore a playful smile so she hadn’t become upset by the correction. And it had been a correction. If Tracee found it interesting, she would immerse herself in it. Whether it was the right thing to do or not. Knowledge, no matter the subject, was something she happily absorbed. He chuckled to himself, facing ahead again. Was it odd that was one of the traits he found refreshing about her? “Over there,” Dean spoke up again. He pointed in the direction of a crypt. Walking closer, Sam could now make out the single word above the entrance. They had finally found the one crypt. Pulling bolt cutters from the inside of his jacket, Dean approached the door.

Within a few moments, the lock was broken and his brother pulled open the doors. They were greeted by cobwebs, which Dean had to clear out of the way before Tracee would step foot in the crypt. All of it, including from the corners of the entrance. She did not mess around when it came to insects or arachnids. And would not take any chances when it came to them. Sam coughed lightly as the scent of the derelict crypt invaded his nostrils. He thought he would be used to scents like that, but no. It was still as unpleasant as the first time.

The two woman followed him behind him as he observed the small structure. There were urns and labeled plaques. Three of the urns had children’s toys, showcased behind glass, above them. So this was definitely the right place. Sarah moved forward, scrutinizing the middle glass case. Her hair did little to shield the disgusted look on her face. “Okay… That, right there, is the creepiest thing I’ve ever seen,” she remarked with a slight huff. Tracee moved over to see.

“Oh, honey, you haven’t _seen_ creepy yet, but I have to agree with the creepy factor,” she replied. “I’ve seen _Chucky_ way too many times for this.” She made a show of backing away from the case.

“It was… something of a tradition at the time,” Sam mentioned. “Whenever a child died, sometimes they would preserve the kid’s favorite toy in a glass case—put it next to the headstone in the crypt.”

“Sounds like W.P.S. to me,” Tracee commented, rolling her eyes. Sam and Dean chuckled, having known what she meant, but Sarah furrowed her brow in confusion. “Don’t worry about it,” she told her. “So what are we looking for?”

“Something strange,” Dean answered, shifting his gaze to the left and right. “And I think I just found it. Check out the urns.” Obediently, Sam focused on the four urns. It clicked immediately, and said his findings out loud. “Exactly. Mom and the three kids are here. Daddy Dearest isn’t.”

“Then where is he?” Sam questioned.

“Better question is: How do we find out?” Sarah asked.

“Look at you with the deductive reasoning!” Tracee praised. “Knew you weren’t just a pretty face.” She winked at Sarah, who visibly blushed and smiled as she tucked strands of her hair behind her ear. Seemingly unaware of the reaction, the tiny woman turned towards the exit. “Let’s go find out.” Eagerly, Sarah followed after her, once again, looping her arm with Tracee’s. Before Sam could head off with them, Dean smacked his arm.

“Dude, you don’t think…” he began. At his look of confusion, his brother shook his head. “ _Nah_ —never mind. Let’s go.” Dean walked by, leaving him alone in the crypt. Sighing, Sam furrowed his brow, wondering what that had been about. He shook his head, clearing it from his mind. For now, they had a job to finish.

About twenty minutes later, Sam found himself waiting outside the county building along with Sarah. Dean and Tracee had gone in to retrieve the necessary information of what had happened to Isaiah Merchant’s body. If the man had been cremated, they would be back to square one. Hopefully, things would turn in their favor. Initially, Dean had volunteered to go because a group of people would seem suspicious. Tracee had insisted she wanted to go as well because she hadn’t gotten the chance to infiltrate and impersonate yet. She had called it a learning experience, and Dean had approved. So that’s why he found himself sitting with Sarah, feeling as awkward as he had on their date.

For the most part, Sarah remained quiet, eyes focused on the entrance. She fidgeted, though, seemingly becoming more and more anxious the longer it took for Dean and Tracee to reappear. Eventually, Sam noticed how tense she had become since they had been left by themselves. “So…” she began. “What exactly are they doing in there?” Luckily, he had known the question would come and already had an answer for her. “How’d they even get in the door? Tracee said—well, I thought she was joking about the infiltration thing.”

“No, she wasn’t,” Sam told her. “Lying and subterfuge are how we get things so we can do what we need to do. Mostly.” Sarah nodded her head and pursed her lips. Once again, her eyes shifted to the entrance of the building. For a few moments more, they sat in silence. Then Sarah huffed lightly, turning her eyes back to him.

“Can I ask you something?”

“ _Um_ … sure, yeah,” Sam replied.

“I don’t mean to be forward, but… a girl could wait here forever.” She chuckled, but it was forced. Her eyes looked towards her lap. Nervously, her hands rubbed at her thighs before she stiffened. Sam braced himself for whatever question that might pop out of her mouth. “Could there be… something _here_ between us? Or are your mixed signals an elaborate way of getting my attention?” Sam sighed lightly, turning his gaze away from. “Oh, I guess I did read things wrong.”

“I’m sorry, Sarah,” he muttered. Another sigh left his mouth. “I didn’t mean to… I mean, you’re stunning and smart and braver than most people…”

“I hear a ‘but’ coming…”

“But,” Sam agreed with a nod. He forced himself to look at her. “… There’s someone else.” Admitting it out loud was different from thinking it. Freeing if he were all the way honest. “Maybe if I hadn’t met her or if I had met you first… there might have been something. I didn’t mean to give you any signal. If Dean and Tracee hadn’t pushed me, I don’t think I would have asked you to dinner in the first place.” God, it sounded harsh, but it was the truth. They would have obtained the provenances another way if they hadn’t convinced him to call her. Since the beginning, he had felt uncomfortable with the whole thing, especially since Tracee hadn’t seemed to have a problem with him going on a date. “I’m really sorry.”

“No, I get it,” Sarah murmured. “I was only a means to an end for you. Lying and subterfuge.” Her gaze dropped and her pink lips showed him a frown. Sam felt like a terrible person. He hadn’t wanted this at all, but what could he do now that he was in this position? More apologies from him, and it would start to sound like pity. Sarah cleared her throat before turning her narrowed eyes on him again. “So I’m guessing when you told me ‘It’s complicated’ when I asked why you hadn’t been dating… you meant you’re not interested in anyone else.”

“Yeah,” Sam stated.

“So why aren’t you dating this lucky girl?”

“It’s… It’s hard to explain.”

“Is it…?”

Sam swallowed hard, and then sighed through his nose. “Look, Sarah…” He pressed his lips together, debating on whether he should tell her anything about it. “I… I had a girlfriend… and she died. I never thought I would get over her… I never thought I could feel anything towards anyone else, but…” An image of Tracee flashed through his mind. Bathed in the light of the morning sun, she smiled at him. Despite himself, he couldn’t stop his own smile spreading across his face. “But I met her, and I didn’t feel guilty or weird, and… The pain that I went through losing someone I love made it so hard to attempt to move on.” A longing sigh left him. “But she… She’s amazing, and she makes it better. And I’m ready. I’ve been ready to move on with her. She… makes this whole life seem worth it. Potential pain and all.”

“Doesn’t sound that complicated, Sam,” Sarah commented. “It sounds like she knows about this life, so… what’s so complicated?”

“I don’t know if what I feel for her is what she feels for me,” Sam answered truthfully. “I don’t want to push her into something she might not want. So I keep my distance, hoping she will come around, I guess.”

“That’s really sweet, but _so_ _archaic_.”

“Sorry?”

“Seriously, Sam, how are you supposed to know anything if you don’t _ask_?” Sarah ignored his incredulous expression. “It’s real nice that you’re waiting for her go ahead. But what if she’s waiting for _yours_?” Blinking, Sam continued to stare at her, completely mystified. He hadn’t thought of it that way. Hadn’t crossed his mind. Also, he had thought Sarah would be angry with him for using her, but here she was giving him relationship advice. “You probably throw weird signals at her, too, don’t you?” Sarah shook her head, not giving him time to answer. “And from the way your face lit up when you talked about her and the face you make when Tracee says something particularly witty, I’m guessing she’s the one you’re referring to."

“… Am I that obvious?"

“No, you’re not,” Sarah responded. “She doesn’t look at you when you smile at her like that, I’ve noticed. She probably doesn’t know about your signals. You should probably just kiss her. Then… you’ll know for sure what she wants.”

“I… I, _um_ , don’t know what to say,” Sam muttered, shaking his head a bit. “I was not expecting this.”

A light smile crossed her face. “I wasn’t expecting this either,” Sarah admitted. “But you and Tracee, and Dean are great people. I haven’t known you long, but I can see that. And all of you deserve to be happy. Not to be rude, but you _and_ your brother seem to be the sort to create imaginary obstacles so that you have an excuse not to grab your own happiness.”

“Just us…?” Sam questioned. Sarah shrugged.

“Tracee’s naturally affectionate to those she cares about,” she stated. “She doesn’t seem the type to come up with excuses. If she sees something as a problem, she won’t ignore it.” That sounded like her—to a T. It was a bit unusual that Sarah Blake had seen so much in such a short time. Sam hadn’t heard most of their conversations. Could it be that Tracee had learned Sarah’s name and had been revealing herself to her this whole time?

“How do you-?”

“Am I interrupting something?” Dean popped out of nowhere and nearly scared his heart right out of his chest. Trying not to glare, both he and Sarah denied his intrusion. “Apparently,” he muttering, raising a brow. Sam rolled his eyes. Apparently, a stranger could see it all, but not his own brother. Snorting, his gaze shifted from Dean to locate Tracee, but she was nowhere around. He almost immediately asked for her whereabouts. “She had to tinkle—her words, not mine.” He held up a few papers, probably copies of his findings. “But we did find out that the surviving members of the Merchant family were so ashamed of Isaiah that they didn’t want him interred with the rest of the family, so they handed him over to the county. The county gave him a pauper’s funeral—economy style. Turns out that he wasn’t created. He was buried in a pine box.”

“So there _are_ bones to burn?” Sam summarized.

“There are bones to burn,” Dean confirmed.

“Tell me you know where.”

His brother merely smirked.

 

0-0

 

Something was off. Even hours later, after day had shifted to night, Tracee felt something wasn’t quite right with the closing of this case. Under the cover of night, the four had come to Isaiah Merchant’s burial site. Sam and Dean had been the ones to take up shovels and dig. She and Sarah were to be lookouts whilst holding flashlights so that the two could see what they were doing. Peering down into the hole, Tracee silently praised how quickly they had worked to get the hole so deep. They had probably gotten to six feet by now. Soon, the case would be over. Still, something was bugging her about all this. She still didn’t think Isaiah made sense. But there was nothing else to do but lay the guy to rest.

Speaking of resting, Dean and Sam halted their efforts, panting heavily. They had been shoveling dirt nonstop. Perhaps she should have gone to the car for water. Too late now, though. They must be so close to the target. Leaning against the wall of Earth, she could see Dean look her way. Sarah was standing next to her with one arm wrapped around her free arm while the other hand tightly clenched the flashlight. She had been shivering ever since the sun went down. Anyway, Dean stared up at her, annoyed expression on his face. “You could have helped, you know,” he said.

“And ruin my freshly painted nails?” Tracee asked, feeling a grin stretch along her face. His annoyance became more prominent. “I’m half surprised you wanted to ruin _your_ freshly painted nails.”

“Freshly _what_?!” Dean hurriedly brought his hand up. It just happened to be the one she had stealthily painted before she had gone up on the roof of the motel to clear her mind. The right one had been left uncolored unfortunately. The older Winchester had been so deep in his sleep, he hadn’t noticed the gentle strokes from her coloring his nails. He had been matching her silver ones all day, and apparently he had just taken notice. “Come _on_ , Trace! I _talked_ to people with these!”

“If it makes you feel better, Samuel’s toenails are blue,” Tracee told him. A yelp of ‘what?!’ came from the younger Winchester. “Relax, I’m kidding.” Sam sighed in relief, and then went back to digging. Dean glared up at her, but he resumed digging as well. Once they had become distracted again, she turned to Sarah to see that she was trying to keep her giggles at bay. Smirking, she mouthed that she had not been kidding with a slight shake of her head. Sam’s nails had been painted as well. Laughter erupted from the pretty woman’s mouth.

“What the hell’s so funny?!” Dean demanded to know, looking up at them again.

“Nothing, nothing,” she assured. She lightly nudged the giggling woman beside her to get her to stop laughing. “You find anything yet?” The older Winchester huffed lightly before going back to work. Sarah snorted lightly, drawing Tracee’s attention.

“So I’m guessing this isn’t the first hole they’ve ever dug?” she asked.

“Probably not, but this is the first time I’ve seen them do it,” Tracee replied. In a hushed tone, she continued. “Too bad it’s not hot. It’d be far more interesting to look at if they were half naked, sweating, and… under the burning sun.” Sarah giggled again, nodding her head in agreement. “So how are you? Still tip-toeing around hysteria?”

“No, I’m fine… I’m pretty sure,” Sarah admitted. “I’m just glad it’s almost over.” She let out a sharp sigh. “I doubt I can go back to my previous line of thinking after this—knowing just a few things changes everything, but… in the long run, knowledge is power.” Tracee grinned. The more she interacted with her, the more she liked her. It probably wouldn’t come close to how much she liked Cassie, but she could see herself thinking of her as more than an associate.

“Think I’ve got something!” Dean announced, banging his shovel against something other than wood by the sounds of the impact. Two beams of light shined down on the ground beneath him. He brought down his shovel several times under the sound of cracking wood filled the night. Dean reached down to pull up the splintered wood, revealing skeletal remains. “Jackpot…!” As Sam climbed out of the hole to retrieve the salt and gas, the older brother continued to pull up pieces of the wooden box until the entire skeleton was revealed. He, too, climbed out, taking the offered salt.

Tracee and Sarah stood by, watching the two pour salt and gas into the hole. They made sure every inch of the skeleton had been touched. Tracee reached into her pocket, pulling out matches. She may or may not have stolen them from Dean. The older Winchester snatched them out of her hand almost instantly. She rolled her eyes in response. “Just light the sucker,” she groused.

“You’ve been a real pain in the ass, Isaiah,” Dean remarked, striking several matches at once. “Good riddance.” The four crowded around the hole, watching the remains burn to ash. It took longer than expected, but Sam had assured her previously that once a fire had been set on a ghost’s remains, the ghost moved on almost instantly. So they hadn’t needed to stand around until the fire burned out.

“So would it be a bad time to mention that I don’t exactly enjoy bonfires if s’mores aren’t available?”

Three pairs of exasperated eyes stared back at her.

Still, her question had given them reason to start packing up. The fire had been put out, things were gathered, and they all headed towards the Impala. Ten minutes later, they were outside of the last victim’s home. Last thing before everything was done was to get rid of the painting. A precaution, really. One that she had suggested. The brothers had done the dirty work. The least she could do to contribute would be to handle the rest of it. “I thought the painting was harmless now,” Sarah said as Tracee moved to get out of the parked car.

“You really _don’t_ want to get rid of this thing? After all it’s done?” she asked. Sarah looked thoughtful before nodding her head. “Besides, like Dean said, we’d be doing the art world a favor.” The older brother chortled in agreement. “You coming?” The reason she had asked had been because she remembered how much the pretty woman wanted to fix what she and her father and inadvertently caused.

“Okay,” Sarah replied, scooting across the backseat towards the open door.

“We shouldn’t be long,” Tracee told the two siblings once Sarah had joined her side. She shut the door, and then turned, heading up the steps to the house. The plan was to just grab the painting, find a spot, and then bury it. Maybe even rip it to pieces before burying it in multiple places. She hadn’t decided yet. Whether route she took, she would take pleasure in terminating the ugly thing. Opening the door, she and Sarah entered the house and made their way to the living room. Her mouth dropped open at the sight of the painting above the fireplace. “Oh shit…”

“ _Uh_ , Tracee…” Sarah whispered, fear mingling with her voice. Like her, Tracee imagined the woman’s eyes were focused on the painting in stunned horror. “You’re the expert in all the ghost stuff-” No. No, she wasn’t. Ghosts were still an enigma to her to be quite honest. Tracee gulped, surveying the painting for all his changes. “Is the painting supposed to look like that?” She was too busy mentally slapping herself to give a proper answer. She knew something had been nagging her, and now it was staring—or rather not staring—her in the face. “Where’s the little girl?”

“And the razor blade…” Tracee muttered. She sighed heavily. “Of course, it all makes sense _now_.”

Suddenly, the quiet of the room was replaced by eerie giggling. It echoed and seemed to be coming from all direction. Tracee swallowed hard again, not seeing her opponent. Another cheeky spirit. Fun times! The sound of the door slamming shut entered her ears, probably effectively trapping them within the house. Sarah bolted from her side, leaving her no choice but to follow. She had gone to the front door. Tracee could hear Dean and Sam on the other side, trying to open it. Then her cell phone began ringing. Quickly, she pulled it from her back pocket and answered. “ _Tracee_ …!” Sam’s frantic voice greeted her. “ _The door—I think it shut on its own_!”

“No, it was the Melanie! She’s out of the painting and has her weapon!” Tracee stated. “She’s the one that’s been murdering people.”

“Who?!”

She had heard Dean’s voice through the door. Sam must have put her on speakerphone. Running a hand through her hair, she began to explain. “Melanie—the adopted girl—I looked into her. I was curious why Isaiah adopted a little girl out of the blue, so I found out… Her family had been murdered the same way!”

“ _Why didn’t you say anything_?!” Sam asked.

“Because I didn’t think it was relevant! She was already cremated anyway! Besides, Isaiah’s the only one that still had remains!” Tracee shot back.

“ _Well, he was looking down—maybe he was a benevolent spirit, warning people about the little girl_?” Dean suggested.

“ _Hey, hey, hey—let’s recap later_! _Right now, we need to get you two outta there_!” Sam said. “ _The lock won’t give out here_! _You’re gonna have to break it down_!”

“Yeah, because we totally have a portable battering ram,” Sarah hissed sarcastically. Tracee almost laughed.

“Look—I’m going to find some iron to keep her at bay,” she stated. “You two need to figure out why we’re dealing with this ghost if she’s already been cremated.”

“ _No_! _Tracee_!”

Ignoring his frantic cries, Tracee grabbed a hold of Sarah’s hand, pulling her back to the room with the portrait. “If she wants our blood, then she’s gonna get a challenge she’s never had!” Gritting her teeth, she released Sarah’s hand only to pick up a fireplace poker. It was probably iron, but if it wasn’t, she could still use it like her katana. After some thought, she handed it to a bewildered Sarah. “Defend yourself!” she exclaimed, going for another poker. The sliding doors suddenly slammed just—one right after the other. An unnatural wind picked up, scattering paper and lowering the temperature.

“Tracee…!” Sarah cried, voice clearly panicked.

The little girl had appeared and was slowly making her way towards them, dragging behind her favorite toy. In her other hand, she held the razor blade. With a bruised face—or was it decay?—the spirit of Melanie stared at them. Despite the lack of expression, killer intent radiated from her. Tracee breathed out, willing herself not to back away from the apparition. She officially disliked ghosts, though. The girl shifted forward, almost like teleportation, and then her mouth opened. Unnaturally wide, her mouth released a cacophonic scream. Her face shifted and distorted as the screams became louder, morphing into growls.

“That is just _so_ wrong!” Sarah moved pass her, swinging the poker towards Melanie. Eyes wide, Tracee watched the poker slice through the spirit, causing it to vanish. Sarah panted, more from the adrenaline than the actual swing. The wind and screaming had completely stopped. The pretty woman, arms still raised for another swing, slowly turned to face her. “Iron…?” she guessed.

“Holy _shit_ —you a bad bitch!”

“ _Tracee_ …?!”

Shaking her head to snap herself out of the state of awe, Tracee held the phone up to her ear again as she watched Sarah preen because of the compliment. “I’m here, Samuel,” she stated. “Hold on—let me put you on speaker.” She pulled her phone away from her ear, and with a push of a button, she could hear the two brothers shuffling about. She could practically feel their panic, too. “We’re both fine at the moment, but I think I remember you saying iron doesn’t actually kill, so any ideas _why_ we’re dealing with this thing?”

“ _I don’t know_ ,” Sam admitted. “ _There shouldn’t be anything left to burn_!”

“ _Then how is she still around_?!” Dean shouted. “ _Trace, just break down the door_! _We can come back_!”

“ _No_! We figure this out, and we figure it out _now_! There must be something else—something we missed!”

“Hey, wait!” Sarah stepped towards her, lowering the iron poker. “We used to handle antique dolls at the auction.”

“ _That’s fascinating, Sarah, but important right now_?” Sam’s sarcastic voice came through loud and clear. Tracee found herself frowning at his dismissive tone.

“Now is not the time for your _sass_ , Samuel,” she remarked, glaring down at her phone as though he could see the ire on her face. Shifting her attention back to Sarah, she nodded for her to continue.

“Well, back then, they used to make the dolls in the kids’ image,” she explained. “I mean _everything_. They would even use the hair. I think that doll back at the crypt might be the reason her ghost is sticking around.”

“You hear that?” Tracee asked. “Does hair count as human remains?” The brothers gave a confirmation in unison. “Then go and burn that creepy ass doll!”

“ _Be careful_!”

“You, too.” Tracee ended the called, and then slipped her phone into her back pocket again. She didn’t know how long it would take them to reach the crypt from this distance, but hopefully it wouldn’t be that long. She couldn’t physically contend with a ghost. All the strength in the world met nothing against their astral bodies. They would have to hold until the doll was destroyed. Tracee looked over to Sarah, who had been watching her. “You ready…?”

“As I’ll ever be,” she said.

“Attagirl,” Tracee nodded her head in approval. The lights began flickering before going completely out, leaving them shrouded in shadows. If it hadn’t been for the moon, they would be virtually blind. “Back yourself into a corner.” Sarah complied as the child’s creepy giggling echoed throughout the room again. The wind came again, blowing harsher than the last time. She could sense the little girl again, but she didn’t have a proper lock on her presence. Like her incessant giggling, her essence overwhelmed the area. It was a true ghost she was dealing with—not a _Tulpa_.

Her heart lurched in her chest, feeling a solid presence to her left. Snapping her head in that direction, she saw the large wooden desk coming at her fast. Tracee heard Sarah scream her name as she jumped up, narrowing avoiding the desk by twisting right over it as it slid by. She landed on her feet, and then drove her makeshift sword towards the fireplace. The poker plunged deep in her head. Melanie screamed as her form dissipated. Once again, the wind stopped and the lights flickered back on. “You did it!” Sarah cheered.

“Stay where you are!” Tracee ordered. The spirit may have disappeared, but only to recuperate. Hopefully, though, her actions bought the brothers some time to destroy the doll. She abruptly shuddered violently. The ghost was back. Already?! Had even a minute gone by? Bloody hell! Tracee gripped the poker’s handle tightly just as the lights shut off again. Sarah gasped loudly. Melanie appeared again by the threshold.

“ _Slayer_ …!” she hissed.

“Great—another one,” Tracee muttered, resisting the urge to roll her eyes. This thing around her neck was proving to be useless against spirits. The apparition sharply cut her head to the side, and she was thrown across the room. Her back slammed hard against the wall. She fell down, taking picture frames down with her. Oh yeah. She officially hated malevolent spirits now. Quickly righting herself, she threw a punch, but Melanie dodged by teleporting backwards. She flung the poker from her other hand, impaling the wall behind the spirit. She was getting real tired of teleportation, damn it. Gasping, she felt herself being thrown again—this time into the coffee table near Sarah. “I swear to God if they don’t light her up soon!”

“Tracee!” Sarah called, relinquishing her own weapon. The Slayer reached for the poker mid-air, and then stood up, facing off against Melanie again. With a burst of speed, she rushed towards the little girl, nailing her through the chest just as she burst into flames. Surprised, Tracee jerked her hands back, stepping away from the burning girl. Melanie, for just a second, looked just as surprised before completely disappearing. No longer feeling the weight of spirit’s presence, the Slayer dropped her weapon. Her eyes drifted to the painting to see that the little girl’s image had returned. The portrait looked just as it was supposed to be. A smile crept across her face. Those two had done it.

Her cell phone buzzed and rang in her back pocket. Sighing in relief, she pulled it and quickly answered. Instead of Sam, it was Dean. “ _Trace, you okay_?” he asked before she could greet him. Tracee gave a humorless chuckle as she glanced at the panting Sarah.

“Oh yeah,” she replied. “Better than okay. What about you? Is Samuel okay?”

“ _Yeah, we’re good over here_ ,” Dean replied. “ _Whatever happened to separation not being an option for dangerous situations_?”

“Not to worry—I was in good company,” Tracee replied. She hung up before Dean could protest more. “You ready to get out of here?”

“Yes, please,” Sarah breathed out, clearly relieved.

 

0-0

 

It was the next morning, and the four of them were gathered at the auction house, watching the un-haunted painting being moved into storage. Arms crossed, Tracee explained what she had been up to before they had left the county building. Apparently, it hadn’t been to tinkle. She had, instead, looked for any information regarding the adopted daughter. The reason she had been adopted in the first place had been because her original family had been murdered by an unknown assailant. The reason Tracee had bothered to look further had to do with the article she had spent a large amount of time reading. Based on that article, she had been convinced that someone like Isaiah would not have adopted someone only to kill them a few nights later. The poor man had taken the blame after trying to do the right thing.

“Poor sod,” Tracee muttered, watching as the painting was packed away. “He had been trying to warn people ever since.”

“Where does this one go?” one of the worker’s questioned.

“Take it out back and burn it,” Sarah ordered. Both workers shared a glance, and then turned to her as though they hadn’t heard correctly. “I’m serious, guys. Thanks.” Shrugging, the two men obeyed the order and began moving the wooden crate towards the exit. Sam nodded in agreement as he shifted his gaze back to her. “So why did the little girl kill them?”

“She might have had a mental health issue or something traumatic happened to her before the murders, leaving her no choice but to think killing was the answer,” Tracee replied. She shrugged. “Who’s to say? Regardless, she was a dark child, and her spirit was even more corrupt.”

“Maybe. I don’t really care. It’s over. We move on,” Dean commented.

“How very eloquent,” Tracee snarked with a playful roll of her eyes.

“I… I guess this means you’re leaving?” Sarah asked. Tracee smiled and nodded her head. “Oh wow—I can’t believe I’m saying this, but… I’m going to miss you three. You’re crazy, but amazing.”

“See you later, Sarah,” Dean said, turning in the direction of exit.

“Good luck,” Sam told her, and then moved to follow his brother.

“You know what?” Tracee did not immediately follow after them, prompting Dean and himself to turn back to the two women. The smaller one pulled out a pen from her jacket pocket. She liked to keep pens on her, so that wasn’t a surprise. What was a surprise had to be that Tracee had grabbed Sarah’s hand and began writing on her palm. “Here’s my number. I don’t normally give this out, but you’re not just a stranger anymore.” Sarah smiled brightly, examining the blue ink. Her eyes shifted back towards Tracee. “If something comes up, call me. I mean, I don’t know anything about _art_ , but-”

Sam watched in stunned disbelief as Sarah grabbed Tracee’s face with both hands and smashed their lips together. He could see the widening of her brown eyes from here, so clearly she hadn’t expected the kiss either. Beside him, Dean gapped, and then proceeded to smack his right arm repeatedly as though to get him to see what exactly he had been seeing. Sam didn’t take his eyes off the two women, becoming more envious the longer the kiss went on. Finally, Sarah reared back, dropping her hands. “Goodbye, Tracee,” she whispered, voice laced with playful intent.

“ _Huh_.” The smaller woman lightly touched her lower lip. Then she grinned and cleared her throat. “Yes, goodbye to you, too.” She turned, eyes still wide, and began walking over to them. “Don’t ask. I don’t know. Let’s go. _Whoo_!” She hurriedly bypassed them and walked out of the door. Dean snapped out of his stupor and followed after her, practically squealing her nickname in excitement.

Sam turned back to Sarah, whom had been watching. She stared back at him for a moment, expression completely unreadable. Then she grinned, showing off the smuggest expression he had ever seen. Sarah raised both eyebrows and crossed her arms, silently goading him into some type of retaliation. Oh, and he did want to. That had been the second time this woman had so easily gotten something from Tracee that he had been hoping for. He scowled at the self-satisfied woman before turning on his heel and walking out. Her laughter followed. Sam had never been _jealous_ because of another woman before. It might be the reason he was about to do something either real stupid or _real good_.

Ignoring the rapid beating of his heart, Sam swallowed hard as he headed over to the Impala. Dean and Tracee were in the midst of conversation. They were standing by the side of the car, facing one another. She grinned, looking so pleased with herself. “Well, if _that’s_ how you feel, maybe you should just call me _Ms. Steal-yo-girl_ from now on?” she suggested, not noticing his approached. Dean glowered, causing her to giggle. Sam scoffed, causing the two to look his way.

“You can’t steal yourself, Tracee,” he told her.

“ _Huh_?”

He gave her no time to process his words. His hands reached for her, sliding against her hips as he leaned down. Sam hesitated a second more, staring into her eyes. Tracee blinked once, and then her gaze dropped down to his lips. It had been all the confirmation he had needed for now. No more hesitating, he pushed her against the car and pressed his lips against hers. It hadn’t been as mind-reeling as their first kiss, but after two months of dancing around each other, it came pretty damn close. Heat twisted inside and spread throughout his body. He heard and felt Tracee gasp, and he forced himself not to slide his tongue between her parted lips. Instead, he parted from her and opened his eyes, giving her the time for it to click. Her eyes fluttered open and she stared up at him, a simple question on the tip of her tongue. _Are you sure?_ Sam nodded his head. _Absolutely._

Deep in her throat, he heard a low rumble that sent shivers down his spine. Pleasant shivers. In the next second, her arm wrapped around the back of his neck and she pulled him down for another kiss. Rougher than the last, she pushed her tongue pass his lips. Sam immediately latched on, sucking and moaning with her. His arm snaked around her body, pulling her flush against his body while his other hand reached up. He slid his fingers up from the base of her neck, tangling them in her hair. _Yesyesyesyesyes_ …! How had he waited so long? An incredibly hot feeling nearly overwhelmed him as she explored his mouth. It was addicting, and he wanted more. Needed more.                                 

Still, breathing was a priority, so reluctantly, Sam parted from her with a wet pop. He panted lightly as he opened his eyes. Still close, he examined her face. She had not opened her eyes yet and her lips were still parted. As though she had been running, her breathing matched his. “Samuel…” A slight whimper left her as she finally opened her eyes. She slowly licked her lips, and he became aware of just how much that kiss had affected him. Regardless, he wanted another. Trembling, he rested his forehead against hers.

“What the _fuck_?!” Dean’s voice interrupted. Sam turned his face towards his brother, head still pressed against Tracee’s. Honestly, he had forgotten about him. The stunned looked on his face did not disappear. He looked back and forth between them, completely confused. Sam felt a smile spread on his face, feeling completely self-assured and so relieved.

“Can’t see _shit_ ,” Sam reiterated before turning back to steal another kiss from Tracee.

 

0-0

 

From the second floor of the auction house, Sarah stared down at the three. It had taken several moments for Dean to pry his brother away from Tracee. With a tilt of her head, she watched the three converse before they climbed into their car. Sam had managed to follow through with her advice, and had been rewarded for it. Good. The Chevy Impala finally left the parking lot, prompting Sarah to turn her gaze away from the window. Under different circumstances, she might have gotten a kiss from Sam instead of Tracee.

The man was attractive, after all, and smart. But… She had a different role to play. Like hell she would stand by and let things play out without some type of intervention. She had refused to be a hindrance, which is why she had decided to help in the first place. That, and the whole not dying bit. That was important, too. With a sigh, she pulled her cell phone out of the pocket of her jeans. Besides, kissing Tracee had surprisingly felt alright. Her lips were soft, and her lip balm smelled like cherries. Sarah dialed the memorized number and pressed the phone to her ear, waiting for the line to pick up.

“Hey,” she greeted. “It’s me.” She paused for a moment, listening to the question. She had always liked listening to their voice. It was hypnotic in a way. Sarah cleared her throat. “Yes, they just left. I’m pretty sure that I helped.”

“Thank you for your cooperation, Ms. Blake.”

“If what you showed me was true, it’s the least I could do,” Sarah replied. “I’m positive that things are on the right track now.”

“Nothing is set in stone.”

“But to have the opportunity to mold it is something I would gladly do. What you showed me…” She shook her head, attempting to ward away the images before they could surface in her mind. “It _can’t_ happen. Isn’t that why you came to me in the first place? So I can change or push things along?” The woman on the other line remained stubbornly quiet. Sarah scoffed lightly. She might not have known a lot about any of this—this whole supernatural thing—but she knew desperation when she saw it. Despite the massive risk, this woman had come to her and requested her assistance. Showed her things that Sarah shouldn’t have come to know. She had been asked to play a different role, and she had. Things would be different. “Trust me, I’ve made sure of it. You’ll have your _champions_.”

“I thank you, Ms. Blake. This is the last we will speak.”

With a click, the other line went dead. Sarah frowned, pulling the phone from her ear. Admittedly, that woman had spoken down to her several times. Her voice had been great to listen to, but she seriously had a superiority complex. Worse than her father’s. Huffing lightly, Sarah moved to place the phone back in her pocket, but then halted. Her gaze shifted to her palm. She stared at the numbers for a moment, chewing her lower lip. “ _Hm_ …” After a bit of thought, she began to input the number into her phone. She saved it under the contact name ‘Slayer.’ Sarah had no idea what it had meant, but that woman had called Tracee that several times. More than likely, it would become a just another number in her phone. She probably wouldn’t use it for months— _years_ , maybe—but she wouldn’t thoughtlessly ignore it either. What had Tracee told her…? _Better to have something and not need it, than to need something and not have it._

“Sound advice, Tracee Noland. Sound advice.”

 

0-0


	15. Explanation

Dean was irritated.

But the drumming of his fingers against the steering wheel went mostly ignored. His two traveling companions had been ignoring him ever since they had left New York. Sam, riding in the passenger seat, had been quiet, gaze focused outside of the window. Every so often, a half-smile would appear on his face, and then he would slide a finger across his lower lip. He looked so pleased with himself. A cat swallowing the canary, if he ever saw it. Dean internally scoffed, glancing at his rearview mirror. For the first time since he had known her, Tracee had chosen to ride in the backseat, without a seatbelt on. She was lying on her back, tapping away at her phone. She had been doing it since they had gotten in the car. Every so often, she would giggle or snort in amusement. She must have been texting—probably Cassie. And to be completely honest, that was part of the reason he was so irritated.

The biggest reason, though, had to do with the fact that his brother—his own brother—had feelings for someone, and he hadn't known about it. Not just anyone either. Oh no. He had feelings for someone that had been right in front of his face this whole time. All this time, from what he had gathered from those kisses he had witnessed, Sam and Tracee had been apparently building up to this point. And he hadn't seen it. _Can't see shit_ , Sam had told him. Twice. Dean frowned. It really irritated him. Had he really been so blind? But all those hugs had seemed normal. To him, at least. Hell, he had participated with the hugging. Since Tracee had agreed to travel with them, physical affectionate seemed… normal. But apparently, the two of them had been making _moon eyes_ at each other this whole time. Can't see shit. He should have seen _all the shit_. Maybe the reason he was so irritated dealt with him getting it so wrong with Sarah. No matter the reason, he wasn't going to get answers by just thinking about it with half facts.

Dean pulled into a gas station, but didn't park at the pump. Noticing the detour, because it had been decided that they would head for another motel, Tracee sat up. Just as he put the car in park beside the building, she leaned forward on the back of his seat. "Are we getting snacks?" she questioned, apparently unaware to the situation at hand. Dean ignored her and moved out of the car. As he slammed his door shut, he heard his brother make a confused, offended noise. Hastily, the two got out of the car, wearing mirroring pinched looks. They leaned against the car, Sam crossing his arms. "Dean, are you okay?" Tracee questioned, expression softening to concern. "What's this about?"

Dean was ashamed to admit that what he wanted to say did not come out. It felt like stuffing an entire meatloaf down a sink. The words welled in his throat, but did not make it through. Instead, he managed to gesture wildly between the two with his hand. Sam narrowed his eyes and visibly tensed, hopefully catching the meaning behind the gesture. "What's the big deal, Dean?" his brother asked, frowning. Then he surprisingly relaxed, expression taking on a look of self-satisfaction. "I like her. She likes me. We're both _consenting adults_." Sam raised his eyebrows, emphasizing that he had been throwing the words back in Dean's face. Dean didn't take too kindly to that.

"Bitch," he called him, equipped with a sneer.

"Jerk," Sam retorted, completely unashamed.

" _Dorks_ …!" Tracee cut in before Dean would blurt out some not nice words. "I think we all need to calm ourselves before this gets out of hand." She reached up, scratching the left side of her neck. "I'm sure Dean just… thinks what happened came out of left field, Samuel." Her eyes turned to the taller brother, almost hesitantly. "I can't say that he's the only one." Only then did Sam turn to look down at her.

"I'm… sorry it took so long," he told her. "I'll be sure to make it up to you…" His eyes lowered, and then lifted, making it obvious he was looking her up and down. A small grin worked its way onto his face. "And then some." His 'apology' made Tracee purse her lips, an attempt to keep the smile on her face from growing, and shift her gaze to the ground below. Dean reared back in surprise because _who was this person_? It looked like his brother, but his brother had never managed to say anything that… smooth. _Samuel's like the smoothest white boy I've ever met_ , Tracee had told him, completely serious. Dean had denied such a thing, but seeing it _now_ —holy shit. How had he _missed_ it?

"Promise…?" Tracee asked, slowly returning her focus on Sam. She hooked a finger around his front belt loop and tugged him towards her. His brother willingly moved forward, hands lifting to cup her face.

"Oh yeah," he replied. Unabashed, he lowered his head and kissed her. Dean stared in disbelief as the two went at it. Apparently, they had forgotten his presence altogether. He tried to wait it out, but the longer the kiss went on, the more hot and heavy it got. Finally, Dean couldn't take it anymore and cleared his throat. Several times. Sam groaned in frustration as he pulled away from the tiny tank, dropping his hands from her ass. "Dean, is this really so hard for you to comprehend?" he asked, turning to face him. "Think about it— _really_ think about it. From the beginning. Come on, dude…! You're not _this_ oblivious!"

Dean wrinkled his brow, half irritated by the backhanded complimented. The other half reluctantly chose to follow his brother's words. From the beginning, Sam had said. Apparently, there had been indications leading up to those kisses outside of the auction house. He just had to think back—to the beginning—and remember. But honestly, nothing really stuck out when they first came across Tracee. Nothing to think that Sam had the hots for her anyway. Well, there had been the first time they had slept together. It had been a _Huh_ moment in Kansas when he had walked out of the bathroom to discover the two snuggled together under one comforter. Especially, after they had decided that Sam would sleep in the chair. Still, it hadn't been too weird. Even then, Dean had known Tracee to be sensible. She had probably suggested the sleeping arrangements, not caring that they happened to be opposite genders. Sure as hell never stopped her from randomly choosing to sleep in Dean's bed.

But now that he was thinking about it, there had been another _Huh_ instance. Right after Tracee had decided to keep traveling with them. Dean had wanted to see what she could do with a gun. Unfortunately, it hadn't been much. Tracee was just… awful when it came to firing. It had been a bit of a relief when his cell phone had rung. Dean had made Sam switch while he had taken the call. He had seen his brother stand behind Tracee and move her body into a better stance. Dean had felt his eyebrow jump at the sight—because their dad hadn't taught them that way and because Sam had gotten as close as possible, nearly hunching over the tinier person—but he had almost instantly become distracted because of the voice that invaded his ear. Cassie Robinson—hadn't heard her voice in years, and yet he had recognized it immediately. Needless to say, he had forgotten about what he had seen between Sam and Tracee. And because of that whirlwind of a job, he hadn't thought about it again until now.

Maybe he should count the time Tracee had gone full on Slayer mode when Sam had been kidnapped…? Nah, the tiny tank was fiercely protective of both of them as demonstrated when the _Shtriga_ had attacked him. She had viciously attacked the thing, hurting it—scaring it, maybe—in retaliation. It had been the first time Dean had heard her _snarl_. He wondered if all Slayers could do that. _Hm_ … There was that time in Chicago… He had offhandedly mentioned Sam had been looking to get laid. Tracee had become pissy right after and had stormed off. He hadn't known the reason at the time, and with her coming back with information on the _daeva_ —and Meg turning out to be a _demon_ —he had forgotten about it.

Oh…! There had been that time where Tracee had slipped her hand into Sam's pocket. Although hidden, Dean could tell they had been holding hands. Out of all the hugging and sleeping together, that contact had been notable. For a brief second, after Sam had nearly freaked about not saving some poor bastard—because of a vision he had—Dean had recognized the gesture as more than just comforting. He had thought the hand holding had been _intimate_. The first time he had thought _Oh_ , but had written it off as nothing because of Tracee's sudden need to get away from Sam. That whole job, and after, she had chosen to sleep with Dean instead. His brother hadn't taken as long in the shower during that period, so he had thought maybe it had been Tracee's passive aggressive way of showing she had disliked his five minute showers-

Hang on… Dean blinked as a sudden memory came to him. _Tracee leaves her conditioner in for about thirty minutes_ … Sam had said those words to him in regards to the hair dye prank. Dean had assumed a trade of hair tips, but… Sam—he had seemed oddly smug. Oddly _knowing_. How else could he know if not hair tips? But then the two of them didn't have the same hair. What good would it do to trade hair tips? Then it came to him. Like a flash in the dark. In Ashland, Sam had come back to the motel with an unfamiliar scent attached to him. Dean could remember himself wrinkling his nose because of it. That same day, he had come across the same unfamiliar scent. In Tracee's bathroom.

Dean gasped sharply, staring at the two in a whole new light. They had _fuuuccckkkedd_! They had already done the deed. Gotten acquainted. Bumped uglies! Flabbergasted, he blurted his theory out loud. Tracee confirmed with a nod, appearing completely nonchalant about the situation. "Three times," she said, crossing her arms. "Twice in bed. Once in the shower. It was _mind-blowing."_ Dean must have made a face because she leered, curling her tongue behind her teeth. "White boy had me like-"

" _Don't_ finish that sentence!" Dean cut in, but not before images spread through his mind. And unfortunately, he had a vivid and wild imagination. Imagining his brother and Tracee in that type of way… "Gross!" Dean squeezed his eyes shut and shook his head as though it would save him from thinking about the two of them tangled in sheets. He might have groaned dramatically for effect. Still, the dots had all connected, and he could understand the buildup now. They had been flirting and making comments right in front of him. He hadn't missed anything. He just hadn't put two and two and five together. He had seen all the shit after all. Just hadn't recognized it for what it had been.

"This coming from a guy who loves telling me about _his_ exploits," Sam muttered sarcastically, eyes rolling in annoyance. Dean was going to ignore him because _obviously_ this was different from two brothers talking about random encounters with sexy women. Actually, Dean had done most—if not all—of the talking when it came to that, and he was quite proud of the fact. Still, this wasn't just a random encounter. This was Tracee. She was traveling with them— _hunting_ with them. She wasn't just some chick in a town they were passing through. If things went south—and there were so many ways that could happen now that he thought about it—they couldn't just pack it up and move to another town. Not that he was encouraging his 'new town, new girl' policy, but there was a reason for it. Several reasons for it. Tracee _could not_ turn into one of those reasons.

"Just…" Dean sighed heavily. "Just tell me how this started." He gestured between the two of them again. "From the beginning, so I can wrap my head around it."

"I don't know, Dean," Sam crossed his arms. "If you can't handle implications, I doubt you can handle the dirty details."

"And they were pretty dirty," Tracee chirped. At his disgruntled look, she laughed. "What do you know? That is fun. No wonder you do it to Samuel." Dean sarcastically laughed at her joke. She continued grinning. "Without the details, I suppose you can say… we sorta clicked in Ashland. We talked for… a long time about nothing and everything." Her eyes glanced at Sam, and his brother returned the affectionate look. It was _gooey_. Despite seeing the moon eyes, Dean couldn't bring himself to show discomfort. Something so foreign to him felt ordinary. Weird. Tracee tore her eyes away from Sam to continue. "I decided that… I would let him go. He wasn't like the others, so I didn't want to." Then she shrugged. "But he offered to walk me home. Wasn't strong enough to resist the chivalry, too, so I took him to my apartment. Kissing him was different, and… unexpected, so more than kissing happened."

"I spent the night," Sam stated. "… And the morning."

"Three times," Tracee repeated, smile becoming lecherous.

"Stop…!" Dean whined.

"It's true, though. Your brother has _impeccable_ stamina." She had the nerve to giggle, causing a long exaggerated eye roll from Dean. "Seriously… I thought we'd never meet again, so names weren't exchanged. And then suddenly you were both in front of me. I learned your names. I remembered my dream. And I started traveling with you. It's not that I was hiding what happened between us, but at the same time, you seemed like you didn't know. Which meant Samuel didn't tell you. So I thought it would be best if I didn't say anything either. How do you tell someone you've just met that you _boinked_ their brother three times and expect to get along swimmingly afterwards?"

"Not a conversation starter," Dean agreed.

"Exactly, so I kept my mouth shut," Tracee stated. "But I've liked your brother from the start."

"From the start…?" Sam repeated.

"What?"

"I thought… I thought maybe you didn't think of me like that… _want_ me like that." Dean rolled his eyes, watching the tiny tank grin and give his brother a long kiss on his lips. All reassuring like and standing on the tips of her toes. Sam wrapped his arms around her, hunching over and allowing the reassuring kiss to continue. They were going to keep doing this, weren't they? With her lips puckered, and teeth showing an affectionate smile, Tracee reared back. Sam looked quite pleased by her reaction to his pout. Dean rolled his eyes again. He had a feeling that he was going to be doing that a lot now. "Seriously, though… From the start?" Hands lingering on Tracee's waist, he furrowed his brow. "I don't understand. What stopped you from kissing me again?"

Tracee stared for a moment before her gaze averted to the ground. "I wanted to, but… I didn't want—I mean, I thought… you were still grieving." Dean shifted awkwardly. He knew that Jessica was a sore subject for his brother, so to find out that Sam had told Tracee about it had him feeling even more the fool. They had talked about her, and he had missed that, too. "I didn't have the right to impose on your grief just because of what happened, so you were off-limits. As much as I wanted to have that real chance with you, I wouldn't have kissed you again without your explicit consent."

Sam lightly grasped Tracee's hands with his own. "I… don't think I will ever forget Jessica," he told her. The tiny tank frowned and swallowed, but nodded in acceptance. "But… It wouldn't have been fair to you if I were still grieving." He then brushed her knuckles against his lips. "I'm not grieving anymore. I'm ready now. For you." Tracee preened in response. Dean felt like he was watching something straight out of a daytime soap opera. "So? Am I still off-limits?"

Tracee returned her gaze to Sam, lips curling in a teasing smirk. "There's not an inch of you that's off-limits now." His brother chuckled as his cheeks flushed. The redness was clearly not from embarrassment. Dean rolled his eyes, huffing. The sound caused the two of them to look his way. Tracee let her hands fall from Sam's grip before reaching up to scratch the right side of her neck. "You… You don't have a problem with that, do you?" Seeing her unease with his silence, Dean immediately tried to pacify her.

" _Nah_ ," he said. He pulled his wallet out of his pocket and pulled out a ten dollar bill. "Why don't you, _uh_ , get us some snacks for the trip? Some Twizzlers and…" He snapped his fingers, trying to remember those things he had recently gotten fond of because of Tracee. "Hot fries—get me some of those." The tiny tank narrowed her eyes, but snatched the bill from his hand. "Thanks, kiddo…!" She made a show of rolling her eyes, but walked towards the entrance of the convenience store attached to the gas station. Once she was gone, Sam obnoxiously cleared his throat.

"You don't like this, do you?" he asked.

"Of course I don't like it!" Dean said, sharply turning to face him.

His brother appeared confused by his quick response. "What the _hell_ , Dean?!" he questioned hotly. "You were all gung ho about Sarah, but as soon as you find out about Tracee, you're all disapproving?"

"I _don't_ disapprove!" he retorted keeping his voice low. "Hell, I like Trace, and it's good for you that you're… you're moving on, but…" He didn't want to say it. It was bad enough that the thought had crossed his mind. So he decided to deflect. "Look—Trace isn't exactly… the best person to be in a relationship with." Apparently, that was the wrong way to deflect because his brother instantly gave him the Bitchface. Hastily, Dean attempted to explain the deflection. "I mean…! Tracee tends to hit and quit it— _her_ words—with guys. And I know you, Sam. When you like a girl, you fall hard and fast. Both of you are great, but those are two extremes ideals that will eventually crash and burn, leaving everybody cringing at the fallout." Sam blinked, looking genuinely taken aback.

"What… What are you talking about? Tracee's not-"

"Yeah, she is," Dean cut in. "She told me herself. She hasn't been in a solid relationship since that dick cheated on her. Any guy she comes across, she plays with for a night, and then brushes them off. I don't want you to be one of her toys." Late night discussions while watching chick flicks had been unexpectedly forthcoming on both sides. He continued to blame those chick flicks for his running mouth.

"… You're saying she's going to _hurt_ me?" Sam asked, expression twitching in clear annoyance and befuddlement.

"Not intentionally! I mean, she's still Trace-!"

"It's different, Dean," Sam retorted. "Me and Tracee—it's _different_. She told me about her ex—how he hurt her… I understand what she did in retaliation to other guys, but what's going on between us—it's different."

"Yeah, you keep saying that, Sammy."

"It's the only way I can describe it." Dean's eyes widened, feeling his heart stuttered in his chest. The hell…? The conversation had taken a U-turn somewhere down the line, but that... Hadn't he heard that somewhere before? _Felt_ that? The older Winchester shifted awkwardly, not at all liking the vague, yet oddly stabbing, recognition of his brother's reasoning. "Look, Dean, you don't have to like it. You can worry all by yourself, but it won't change what's going to happen. She's my girlfriend now, and I want this to work with her, so you're going to have to suck it up. Pretend everything's fine—you're already good at it."

Before Sam could storm off, Dean grabbed his arm and made his brother look him in the eye. "Hey, listen…!" he ordered in a hushed voice. Sam glared, but remained where he stood. "That's not the only reason… Are you sure you're ready for another relationship?"

"I cannot believe you're asking me that after you tried to force Sarah on me!"

"Sarah would have been a _fling_!" Dean exclaimed. "A stepping stone—a rebound, that's _it_! Obviously, you want more with Trace, and maybe that's not really a good idea considering… Jessica?"

"You don't want Tracee to get hurt either…" Sam summarized, understanding showing in his eyes. Dean almost hated how perceptive his brother could be. He cleared his throat and gave a sharp nod. "You don't have to worry about that. Tracee's not a rebound. This is going to work, alright? Besides, I've already had a sorta rebound anyway before we met Tracee."

"You _what_ …?! With who?!"

Before Sam could explain—actually, he pursed his lips like he wasn't going to—Tracee came around the corner, carrying a gray plastic bag. Dean expected to see her grinning face because of all the goodies she had gotten, but to his surprise, her expression was unreadable. He clenched his teeth, hoping the tiny tank hadn't heard any of the conversation. " _Um_ … so I just got a call," she began. "My father has decided to return to the country sooner than expected. I'm pretty sure we should head for Ashland now."

"Is everything okay?" Sam questioned.

"Probably…" Tracee replied. "But I think we should get a move on. I would like to get home before father returns. If that's alright…?"

"Yeah, of course," Sam replied for the both of them. "Let's go."

 

0-0

 

Night had fallen by the time Dean had pulled into the driveway of the Noland residence. Tracee yawned as she fished for a set of keys in her large red bag. While she fumbled to unlock the door, Sam took the time to glance around. Things hadn't seemed to have changed since the last time he had visited. Tracee's childhood home was a modest place with two floors—the main floor and the basement. The last time he had been here, he hadn't ventured into the basement. Neither had Dean. But the plan included washing all of their clothes, so more than likely, he would know the full extent of Tracee's house by the time the detour was over. Then again, hadn't she mentioned something about an attic before…?

The door was pushed open, allowing his girlfriend—Sam smiled at the thought—to enter. As she moved, Tracee scooped up the mail that had been pushed through the slot of the door. Unceremoniously, she dumped her bags and began sifting through the white envelopes. Without speaking, she walked forward and beckoned them to follow. Huffing, Dean followed after, picking up the discarded bag as he did. His brother had gotten used to picking up after Tracee. She normally left her things anywhere. Once, Dean had made the mistake of attempting to locate the bathroom in the middle of the night. He had tripped over an empty carbonated water bottle and had crashed right into their bed headfirst. After the laughter had stopped, Tracee had merely told him 'My bad, homie,' and then had snuggled against Sam in order to fall back asleep. Dean had not appreciated it and had thrown the bottle at her. In the end, it had become a habit for his brother to pick up her crap in order not to be harmed by it. Occasionally, he still tripped.

Shaking his head, Sam followed after, flipping on lights as he did. He found the two in the living room, plopped down on the dark blue couch. Dean had set their bags down in between them and was currently reaching for the remote to the television. Tracee was still shuffling through two months' worth of mail, legs crossed at the ankles and resting on the coffee table in front of her. "Are we ordering dinner?" Sam asked just as his brother turned on the television.

"I'm going to make pasta," Tracee announced, gaze still on the mail in her hands.

"It's been two months. Wouldn't the chicken have gone bad by now?" Dean questioned, flipping through channels.

"It's _canned_ chicken. All the ingredients for that are nonperishable. " Tracee completely missed the affronted look from his brother, but the corners of her lips tugged upward in a smile. "I ain't got no time to be a master chef, Dean."

"I feel so betrayed," he grumbled, causing Tracee to laugh.

Sam couldn't help the smile that crossed his face. Despite his brother's reservations about their relationship, he interacted the same as he always had with Tracee. Maybe Dean wasn't as bothered as Sam had first thought. Maybe 'bother' hadn't been the right word in the first place. Worried was more accurate. He could understand his brother's reasoning, though.

From their own experiences, this life and relationships didn't tend to work out. It's had been what had happened to their father. It had been what had happened to Dean. It had been what had happened with Jessica. As much as he tried to distance himself from this life, it had come back with a vengeance, ending the as-close-to-normal-life he had built. Sam refused to let that happen again. Tracee was different. Their normal would be different. Anything to prevent the same thing from happening. Sam sat down on the loveseat adjacent to the couch, setting his bag down next to the coffee table.

The next few hours were spent talking and eating amongst the three of them. Sometime during that, Sam must have drifted off because he was suddenly opening his eyes, attempting to see through the blurriness. He blinked slowly at first, and then rapidly to clear his eyes. Groaning a bit, he focused on the couch. Dean and Tracee had fallen asleep, too. His brother, with his arms crossed and feet propped up on the coffee table, slept with his head tilted back. Tracee slept with her legs curled up and head resting on the arm of the couch. Sam grinned lazily at the sight before moving to stand up.

He grabbed their empty bowls from the coffee table, careful not to make too much noise. Balancing the dirty dishes, he reached for the remote to turn the television off. Once done, he headed for the kitchen. Stifling a yawn, he set the dishes down in the sink and turned on the water. As the water washed away the remnants of food, Sam leaned back in a stretched. This time, he let go of a jaw-popping yawn. Waking up in an actual house felt foreign. If he didn't include two months ago, it had been nearly a year. To think he wasn't exactly uncomfortable with it. It didn't feel like he was waiting in his girlfriend's father's house, anyway. He probably should. There was no telling when the man would arrive. Maybe because Dean and Tracee were just in the next room.

Sighing through his nose, Sam shut off the faucet. He eyed the three bowls before ultimately deciding to clean them in the morning. He was more concerned with taking his girlfriend to bed. Before, he had had to sleep on the pull out bed couch along with his brother. It had been a painful experience that his body had not agreed with the next morning. Now, he could actually sleep in Tracee's room. Just as he was about to turn and head for the living room, he halted. Straining his ears, he stopped all movement. Had that been giggling? Sam turned his head, gaze settling on the shut door to the right.

If he remembered correctly, the shut door led to the study of Tracee's father. She had made mention of it the last time they were here, informing them not to go in because her father liked his privacy. Not even she had been allowed in during her childhood and teenage years. He certainly wouldn't allow two strangers to poke around. The giggling came again, causing Sam to furrow his brow. Curious, he stepped in the direction of the door. The giggling sounded an awful lot like a child's laugh. Before he knew it, his hand was on the silver knob, turning it so that he could push the door open.

Just as the door creaked open, Sam's eyes were assaulted by a bright light. Wincing, he squeezed them close. There was a humming sound, which came from the inside of the room. When he opened his eyes, he found himself standing in a corner of a room. The room was obviously not a study. It appeared to be a bar. A high-end bar full of tailored suits. Well, not full, but all the patrons wore business attire. Sam blinked at the unexpected change in scenery. He looked around and gaze settled on two men, sitting at a table, away from the other patrons. The reason he focused on them had to do with one of the men. Instead of a suit, he wore very casual clothing—multicolored—with a gold chain around his neck. He was a man with dark skin and a shaved head. No facial hair either.

Only his companion seemed uncomfortable with the man's state of dress. Other patrons went about their evening, not showing concern. The man took a sip of his drink, a golden liquid in his glass, appearing quite relaxed. The other sat opposite of him, looking the opposite. Pursed lips and brows furrowed, he looked as though he wanted to be anywhere but here. Not drinking buddies then. Eyes focused solely on them, Sam moved forward. He didn't understand the pull, but he didn't resist either. The two seemed completely unaware of his presence.

"I don't think you understand how grave this matter is!" He spoke with a distinct British accent. "Your daughter must come with us in order to be properly educated." The black man raised a brow, but said nothing in response. "We have given you ample time and reason to come to a decision, and yet you've had an excuse every time!"

"Yeah, you lied ta mah wifey when you first came around," he stated. The other man shifted uncomfortably. "A _prestigious school_ fo' lil' girls…? Is dat what you tell all tha muthafathas?"

"It is protocol," the British man huffed.

"It's a lie."

"That is not important, I assure you," he pressed. "You know the truth now, and that is extraordinary in itself. So you must realize that we wouldn't lie if there wasn't a need."

"Well, mah answer is no." The response generated a flabbergasted expression. The man took off his glasses. He rubbed at the lenses with a handkerchief. "I'm not goin ta give mah sweet baby girl away so she can be used as a tool n' then throwed away. Especially on tha slight chance she'd be useful ta you. She's gonna stay here up in America."

"You must understand-!"

"Fuck dat shit! I do _understand_ , n' mah answer is no."

"…" The British man narrowed his eyes, grumbling a bit under his breath. He placed his glasses back on his face. "I was not supposed to tell you this, but… there is not a _slight_ chance. We believe your daughter _will_ become. There is a prophecy of her calling. She will save the world, but in order to do that, she must be trained."

"Yeah, I hear ya preaching. Too bad I ain't a church man."

"Mr. Evans…! You would cast _doom_ upon the whole world just to keep her?! She has a _duty_!"

"Don't care bout tha world, you feel me? Just mah baby fo' realz. And mah sexy wifey. She ain't goin wit you." He shrugged, slight smirk tugging into existence. "Besides, I know that's suttin' you tell other parents, like a muthafucka." The glasses were removed again for a more furious cleaning. "You eva raise a kid?"

"Well… no. I don't have any children."

"Exactly. Dats something yo ass will never understand, you feel me? That shitty feeling of losin' a mini you. _Nah_ , homie, she can't be replaced. As much bread you tryin' to give me, it ain't worth not seeing her again. My fuckin' fam be all dat matters." The man calmly sipped his beverage. "My baby ain't gon be yo tool. Now, she might have this holier than thou duty all up in yo world, but she also got free will. And no fate, calling, or duty gon change mah mind. Now why don't you get to steppin' and don't come near mah fam again? You got me?"

"Mr. Evans-"

"I ain't gon tell you again."

"You are making an outrageous mistake!" The British man raised his voice just a bit as he placed his glasses back on. "Your love for your daughter, while admirable, is absolutely inadequate to our cause! She would be educated, trained— _taken care of_ for the rest of her life. In exchange, she could save _billions_. The Council-"

"The Council can kiss mah ass."

"Fine, you _ignorant fool_!" The British man stood, causing the loud squeak of his chair as it slid back. "I truly feel for your daughter having to be raised by someone like you! Instead of bettering her, giving her what is best, you would allow her remain as she is or _worst_ —become a closed-minded fool like you! So let the world burn! Let the world be utterly destroyed because of your ridiculous affection for someone-"

"I suggest you choose your next words carefully." It was a warning. The man had lost his laidback expression. His dark brown eyes had become steel. His voice had become clear, yet hard like diamond. "You're not the first man that has made assumptions on my intellect based on the way I choose to talk at times. For your information, I do it for _fun_. I know it makes you people uncomfortable. I actually know a variety of dialects. Perhaps you didn't believe it when you heard my profession?" He watched the British man for a moment, silently intimidating him. Then, just as easily, he relaxed and lifted his glass to his lips. "My decision is not a logical one. It's based purely on parental instinct. So… find another girl who isn't as loved my baby girl."

"Fine," the British man repeated, face red in shame and maybe embarrassment. "On your head be the consequences, Mr. Evans. Good day. You will not see me again."

"Looking forward to it." With a flare of his tweed jacket, the British man sharply turned, leaving the table and nearly stomping towards the exit. Dark brown eyes watched him go until the foreigner could no longer been seen. Only then did a frown work its way onto his face. For several quiet moments, he merely sat there, nursing his drink. "Yeah…" he mumbled, voice barely heard. "On my head be the consequences. As long as they don't fall on her." He slid his hand into the pocket of his pants. With a heavy sigh, he pulled out a trinket—a small pebble of a gem attached to a silver chain. "My sweet baby girl… I'll let the whole world burn… as long as it's not you."

With a sharp gasp, Sam sat upright out of his dream and into reality. He breathed heavily as he frantically took in his surroundings. He was sitting on the couch again, the glow of the television illuminating the room. Dean was still sleeping, not disturbed in the least. Tracee was… gone. Sam looked around, trying to locate her, but as far as he could see, there wasn't any sign of her. "Tracee…?" he called.

"In the kitchen…!" she called back. Sam breathed a sigh of relief, and then stood up from the chair. As he walked towards the kitchen, he shook his head. Really, it had been a reflex. Because despite the vision, there hadn't been a headache. Was that even a vision? Maybe it was just a dream, after all. It hadn't seemed like a normal vision. It hadn't seemed like a normal dream either. There had been so much that he hadn't been able to recognize. Who were those men? What the hell were they talking about? To be honest, he couldn't keep up with most of the things the American man had said. The slang had been borderline unintelligible, and apparently a fabrication for giggles. The outfits the two had been wearing had been a bit… off. Not exactly modern, now that he thought about it. Maybe he should just chalk it up to watching older movies so late at night…?

Shaking his head a bit, and deciding to push his dream to the back of his mind, Sam stepped into the kitchen. He immediately found Tracee. She stood at the sink, cleaning the bowls they had eaten out of earlier. She had also changed to her large grey school shirt and purple shorts. As he approached, she turned her head and smiled at him. Sam couldn't help the smile he gave her in return. "Hey," he greeted. Her smile widened just a bit before she returned her focus to the bowls. Sam moved behind her, easily sliding his arms around her body. He rested his chin on top of her shoulder. "Couldn't sleep?"

"Just woke up a few minutes ago actually," Tracee told him. Her hand reached for the lever to shut off the flow of water. She tilted her head away from his. Sam took the opportunity to shift and plant a light kiss to her stretched neck. She chuckled, hands finding his. Honestly, he marveled the fact that he had so easily switched from hiding to actually showing the affection he had for her. "What about you?"

"Just woke up," he answered, squeezing her a bit tighter. "You brought those bowls here?" Tracee nodded in response. Must have just been a really bizarre dream then. Sam's eyes glanced to the door to his right. It was still firmly shut. Just a dream. He focused back on the tiny woman in his arms. "Why are you cleaning? Doesn't seem like you."

" _Haha_ …" Her sarcastic laugh brought a grin to his face. "If you must know-" She turned around, sliding her arms around him. "-Dirty dishes is the one mess I can't ignore." She smiled up at him, and even though she used the back of his shirt to dry her wet hands, Sam willingly accepted her kiss to his chin. He picked her up, causing her to give a startled yelp. He sat her down on the edge of the sink and began nuzzling her neck. "You're like a deprived addict," Tracee commented, rearing away from him. Her lips lightly touched his once. "Am I your drug, _Sam-u-el_ …?"

"I'm pretty sure I'm hooked," he replied. She laughed then, calling him a corny-ass. "Yeah, but you like my corny-ass, don't you?" She laughed again. Sam couldn't resist kissing her soundly on the mouth. Two months later, and he could finally taste her again. To his heart's content. As much as she would let him. And judging from the way her tongue slithered into his mouth, Tracee was in full agreement. She pulled him closer, locking her legs around his torso. For a time, they explored each other's mouths, taking comfort in the warmth of the connection. At the back of his mind, he hoped his brother wouldn't wake up and discover them like this. Most of his mind had short-circuited as the kiss went on, and his senses were entirely on her. The feel, the scent, the taste of her—it was all so intoxicating.

Sam scooted her closer with one hand while the other reached up towards her hair. Fingers sliding into her thick mane, he found her bright red tie and yanked it out. The tips of his fingers found her scalp, generating a pleased mewl from Tracee. As muffled as it was, Sam still felt it and urged him on in response. He gripped her dark hair and tugged, snapping her head back. A delicious sound left her parted lips as his mouth found the skin of her neck. "Samuel…" A chuckle vibrated in her throat, indicating that the sudden roughness hadn't been a bad thing. Sam happily went back to indulging himself, other hand reaching to grab as well. "Samuel…" She says his name again, less amused and more enthused by his actions.

He would take her right now—or let her take him, if he were perfectly honest—on top of the sink. She grinded against him like she wanted it, too. But… But her father's kitchen wasn't the place. Especially since he would be meeting the man tomorrow. So with great reluctance, he reared back, letting his hands fall from her hair to her hips. Tracee whimpered in protest, moving forward and tightening her arms around. Sam smiled, pressing his forehead against hers, and effectively halting her search for his lips again. "Let's go to bed, _hm_?" Her pretty mouth formed a pout before she lightly shoved him away. She then hopped off the edge of the sink.

"Fine," Tracee told him, walking towards the kitchen's exit. "But don't think you're wearing a shirt this time." Chuckling, Sam went after her. He found her sitting at her vanity mirror. She hadn't had that at her apartment, so he assumed that it had been something from when she had lived with her father. A gift from her teenaged years, maybe? Tracee pulled out a navy blue comb, and began working her hair back into a ponytail. While she did that, Sam obediently removed his shirt. "Undershirt, too," she said, not even glancing in his direction.

Sam snorted lightly, and then obliged. By the time Tracee was done, now wearing a headscarf, he had finished undressing. Only to his boxers. She smiled and stood up from the chair. She went to shut off the light as he crawled on her bed in order to get settled in. Laying face up, he waited for Tracee to climb into bed with him. He didn't have to wait long for her to lay down beside him. He turned, draping an arm around her and pulling her closer. She hummed, pressing her forehead against his and curling her fingers against his chest. They wouldn't stay in this position, of course, but for now, they were comfortable.

After a few moments of nothing but their steady breathing, Tracee spoke again, quietly murmuring his name. Sam grunted to let her know that he was listening, but sleep wasn't far off. He wasn't sure how long they had been making out in the kitchen, but he felt a bit more tired now. "So… what do I call you?" she asked.

"What you do mean?"

"I mean… How should I introduce you to my father?"

"Oh… Oh—I just thought of that. Oh wow, I'm going to meet your father," Sam realized. Tracee giggled, unconcerned with his mild freak out. Tomorrow, it would probably be worse. He had seen pictures of the man that his girlfriend called father. He looked… intimidating for lack of a better word. And from the way Tracee described him, the man doted on her. A man like that probably wouldn't take too kindly to Sam. "Well, we are together, aren't we? I'm your boyfriend."

" _Hm_ … that seems a bit high school-ish, though," Tracee replied. "How about lover?"

"Yeah, because that's going to go over well."

" _Shyeah_ , you're probably right," she admitted. "I'll just say 'Hello, father, this is my daddy.'"

"Stop it," he admonished. She merely snorted and giggled, completely pleased with herself. Despite the dark, he could see her smile because of the moon's light. Sam felt himself smiling in return. His hand slid up and down her side. Boyfriend was pretty standard, though. He wondered why she was so opposed to it… She might have joked, but he could tell something- It suddenly struck him. "Is boyfriend what you called Michael…?" She lost her smile.

"… I called him that all the time," she stated. "Mike or _boyfriend_. And not like his title or something. It was his nickname. I don't want to call you the same thing."

"I'm not him."

"No, you're not… You're different, Samuel. Completely. That's the reason I don't want to call you boyfriend. I don't want to subconsciously expect the same things from you."

"Okay, okay, I understand. I'll take lover or partner or whatever you want," Sam assured her. "Except daddy. _Please_ don't call me daddy." Her smile came back full force and she laughed whole-heartedly. Watching her now, he felt so lucky. "I'm glad I worked up the nerve to kiss you again."

"Why did it take so long?"

"What?"

"I mean… why did you choose outside the auction house to kiss me?" Tracee questioned. "Cassie had this theory that you were practically begging to be jumped awhile back."

"I—wait, you tell Cassie everything?"

" _Shyeah_ , she's pretty much going to know our entire relationship. We're besties, after all."

Sam stared at her for a moment, wondering if she had truly meant it. Then he shrugged, deciding to let it go. Cassie didn't seem the type to go gossiping, so there wouldn't be anything to worry about. Besides, surprisingly, he hadn't felt awkward or embarrassed when Tracee had told Dean about the 'three times' in Ashland. "Honestly…? Like I said before, I thought you didn't see me in that way. Sure, we had become _acquainted_ , but people do that all the time. Dean does it all the time. I thought that maybe you just wanted to have some fun with me, and that's it," Sam explained. "Besides, it's not exactly common for women like you to be attracted to me."

"Women like me…?" Tracee pulled away from him and sat up. She twisted and reached for the lamp behind her on the nightstand. Once the room became dimly lit, she turned back around to face him. "What do you mean by that?" She tilted her head to side, genuinely curious. Sam sat up as well, using his elbow for support because his legs were still outstretched. He bit his lower lip, and then hesitantly moved to intertwine their fingers. She blinked once, and then lowered her gaze to their clasped hands. The contrast of their skin tones must have been eye-opening because her lips parted as her eyes showed comprehension. " _Oh_ …! Women of color? It's not common?"

"No," Sam shook his head. "It's not the first time I've… tried. But when they see me, they look right through me. I don't know—I guess they don't see me as a romantic interest. Actually, most women I come into contact with are like that. It's the ones who do want to pursue something that tends to be _my_ ethnicity. I guess I've learned not get my hopes up."

" _Oh_ …" Tracee echoed in a much softer voice. She squeezed his hand a bit harder. "I'm going to tell you a secret." Her eyes shut for a moment, and then her gaze focused on him. "Shortly after we left Ashland the first time, I accidentally came across a picture of you and Jessica. I was looking for toothpaste when I found it. Up until that point, she was… just your ex. But seeing her—seeing how pretty she was and how happy you seemed… it changed how I felt." Sam knew what picture she had been referring to. After Jessica's death, it had been the only one he had kept. "Before that, I honestly hadn't considered what your _preferences_ might be. Never really crossed my mind because I didn't normally show interest in guys—didn't care what their preferences were. Jessica and I—physically, we're completely different. I convinced myself that the only reason you slept with me had been because of alcohol, and that when it came down to it, you wouldn't see _me_ as a romantic interest… because I wasn't your _type_. It didn't help that Dean said you're totally awkward around those you find attractive. And since you weren't like that around me… I assumed you didn't. Find me attractive, I mean. At least not as a romantic interest."

"Oh," Sam said in surprise.

" _Shyeah_ … That's the… other reason why you were off-limits. To protect myself. I guess, in the end, we both had that type of insecurity," Tracee admitted. "But I assure you, Samuel, I see you… and I want you."

"I want you, too," he said, smiling. "You _are_ different from Jessica, but that's not a bad thing." His free hand lifted to cup her face. "I like you, Tracee. And I want this to work. I want to be with you." She smiled back at him and nodded her head. Sam took it as permission to kiss her. She returned the kiss just as eager. No more insecurities.

Their relationship was official now, and he couldn't wait for what may come.

 

0-0

 

The next day, Tracee found herself sitting in the living room, on the floor, painting her nails. She was in the middle of a _Die Hard_ marathon with the Winchester brothers. Dean had been the one to pick the trilogy. There had been nothing else to do. Nothing productive, anyway. Their clothes had been washed, dried, and put back in their bags. She had done it as a courtesy. Sam had volunteered to dust things. Dean had mostly sat around, watching T.V. until lunch time. He had gone to the store, however, to purchase snacks and drinks before they all agreed to just order in. They had eaten, and now they were just watching movies. They were in the middle of the second movie of the trilogy.

"This one isn't as good as the first," Sam remarked. He sat on the couch right behind her. With her back pressed against the couch, she used his covered knee to paint her nails. Sometime during the bad guy dialogue, her interest had diverted to the trivial task. She had decided on a dark pink this time.

"No sequel is as good as the first," Dean retorted. He had chosen to sit on the black leather recliner chair—her father's favorite seat, but it should be fine, right? He had a beer bottle in one hand and a large empty bowl in his lap. He had finished the popcorn during the first movie.

"I'm partial to the third one," Tracee chimed in. She then blew on her nails to get them to dry faster.

"Yeah, you would," Dean commented, rolling his eyes. She decided to ignore him, but she felt a slight tugging of her lips. Twisting the cap back on to the nail polish, she shifted and leaned forward. The clink of the bottle with the glass of the coffee table almost blocked out the sound of her cell phone vibrating beside her. Her eyes glanced down at her _Motorola Razr_ to see that Cassie had sent her a message. Grinning, she made a grab for her phone and moved to stand up. As she walked by Dean, the older brother opened his mouth. "Aren't you forgetting something?" he questioned. Tracee knew what he was talking about. The two of them had this unspoken rule that whichever one of them got up during a movie had to resupply the snacks.

"Oh, right," she agreed, and then leaned down and pressed a sloppy kiss to his forehead. Just to be cheeky. Dean made a grab for her, but she swiftly twirled out of reach and made her way to the kitchen. Hearing him practically foam at the mouth as he shouted, Tracee giggled in triumph as she flipped open her phone. Cassie's text had been _Call me_. Humming, she headed towards the patio door. She unlocked it, and then slid the door open so she could step outside and call her friend without Dean and Sam hearing. Their conversations normally circled back to Slayer related things. The brothers would ask questions if they knew, and Cassie continued to be adamant about Dean not knowing of her Slayer status. So best to avoid any eavesdropping altogether.

Tracee dialed the memorized number with one hand while the other slid the door shut behind her. She pressed the phone to her ear and waited for the line to pick up. The wait hadn't lasted long. " _So what's up? Did you learn anything?_ " Cassie greeted. Rolling her eyes and smiling in an affection way, Tracee opened her mouth to respond. Her friend never answered the phone with a simple 'hello.'

" _Hello_ , Cassie! What are you talking about?" she questioned.

" _Yeah, hello_ ," she said distractedly. " _What did your father say?_ "

"Don't know. He's not here yet."

" _What? I've been pacing and fidgeting all morning!_ "

"He is coming from London, you know," Tracee stated. "And he probably got a hotel in Cincinnati. He's might not be back in Ashland until tonight."

" _You could have warned me_ ," Cassie muttered.

"Didn't know I had to. You're more anxious about this than I am."

" _Well… if your father knew about you being a Slayer that means that there's some kinda tell,_ " Cassie explained.

"But if he doesn't then it's all a coincidence."

" _I doubt it. You were trained too well for that,_ " she said. Tracee resisted preening. " _And if there's a tell that means someone else knows about it. Could be more than one, which means there's more information out there about Slayers. The Handbook seems incomplete._ "

"You think?"

" _Yeah. Especially since it's not structured in a discernable order. There must be something else… I hope there's something else_." Her confession had been a near whisper. " _Anyway, I'm surprised you're not itching to find out, too._ "

"Maybe I'm just… distracted," Tracee admitted. Honestly, she had been a bundle of butterflies ever since New York. She pressed her lips together, attempting to force the smile from splitting her face. The giggle escaped, though. A heavy sigh entered her ears. Cassie's eye roll could be sensed through the phone. "Hey, I didn't act like this when it was you and Dean!"

" _So you're forgetting about the whole '_ Go for the ass, Dean _' thing then?_ "

"I'm going to need you not to remember the little things." Cassie chuckled lightly. Tracee could no longer stop herself from smiling. "Seriously, though, I haven't been this… enthusiastic about a guy in a long time."

" _I think Sam's good for you,_ " Cassie commented. " _Now you can stop blue balling guys all the time._ "

"Hey! I haven't done that since Samuel!"

" _But you were thinking about doing it. Luckily you stopped. You could have come across some guy who wouldn't take no for an answer._ "

"Okay, _mom_ ," Tracee groused. "Like they would be able to do something about it."

" _Just saying,_ " Cassie crooned, smile in her voice. " _Anyway, I've gotta get back to work. Text me later about your father._ "

" _Mm_. Will do," she promised. "Take care." Cassie gave her goodbye, and then disconnected the call. Tracee hummed lightly, snapping her phone shut. Her best friend would be terribly disappointed if her father hadn't actually known anything. Truthfully, she would rather believe that the circumstances were coincidental. Even if there were pieces of evidence that pointed to him knowing. She had lived with the man for more than a decade. Could he really keep something so big from her? The supernatural world, sure, but a huge part of her existence had been kept from her as well. Like she had told Dean, coming to that realization made her all kinds of uncomfortable.

But Victor Noland would always be her father. No matter what happened when the questioning started. She would remain loyal to him for the rest of her days. Not only for raising her, but ultimately saving her. Tracee reached up to scratch the side of her neck. Had she remained in the childcare system… She shook her head and pushed down thoughts of her early childhood. That had been a small part of her life—the six months between death and life—and it wouldn't do to dwell on it. Sighing, Tracee turned to the patio door. She opened it and went inside. After sliding her phone in the back pocket of her jeans, she shut the door began the short walk back to the living room.

"I'll make another bag. Do you want another beer-?" Her question halted at the sight that greeted her upon coming around the corner. She had left two men sitting in the living room. Now, she was staring wide-eyed at three men standing. Dean and Sam were standing next to each other, hands thrown up in surrender as they faced off against the owner of the house. Her father stood stock still, keeping his eyes and a _crossbow_ aimed at the Winchesters. "Father…!" Tracee exclaimed, horrified. "Put that down!" She made quick strides towards him, slapping the weapon down.

"Bubbles…!" Her father took his eyes off the two brothers and focused on her. Tracee frowned as she felt heat rush to her cheeks. That bloody nickname—she didn't want to be called that in front of Dean and Sam. If the older Winchester heard the story behind it, he would never let it go. "What is going on? Who are these men?!"

"They are my _friends_!"

Her father stared for a moment, and then shifted his gaze back to the Winchesters. He pursed his lips, as he did whenever he was embarrassed. He cleared his throat and set down the crossbow on the coffee table. "Well then…" He cleared his throat again. "My apologies," he continued. He outstretched his hands towards the brothers. "You must understand that coming home to see two strange men in my living room—lounging about—is very disconcerting."

"Hey, we understand," Dean spoke up. "No hard feelings, man." Her father narrowed his eyes. "Sir…" he amended. "My name's Dean. This is my brother, Sam."

"Hello," Sam politely greeted.

"You're earlier than expected," Tracee stated.

"I wanted to surprise you, Bubbles," he answered. He gestured to the crossbow. "That is a gift." It wasn't a wooden crossbow like the one she had trained with as a child. It was modern—black and slick. A real beauty. She smiled, appreciating that he had gotten her another gift whilst he had been away. It would be useful.

"Thank you, father," she said. Then she wrapped her arms around him, glad to see him after so much time. In return, he held her. The comforting embrace of her father. He smelled the same. Spoke the same. It was as though he hadn't been gone for over two years. Grinning, she squeezed him just a bit tighter, lifting him off the floor. It was her normal way of greeting him. He laughed and patted her back.

"There's my darling girl!" he exclaimed, still laughing. She laughed along with him as she settled him back to the floor. "It has been some time, hasn't it?" He patted her shoulders. "I've missed you." He cupped her cheeks and lowered to kiss her forehead. His short beard tickled her skin as it normally did. "Now, am I correct in assuming your… _friends_ know since you've just picked me up like I am a small cat?"

"Yes, father," Tracee told him, taking a step back. She moved backwards until she was standing beside the Winchester brothers. She watched her father carefully. "At the same time, we found out that I am a Slayer." Her father's eyes widen. Tracee cocked a brow at the sight. "Judging from your reaction, you already knew about it." She crossed her arms, feeling a frown form on her face. "So that talk we _should_ have had three years ago…" Her face hardened despite her earlier thoughts of absolute loyalty. "Shall we begin now?"

0-0


	16. Duty

Tracee was clearly upset. Her accent had bled through with the passive aggressive demand to her father. Despite having the intimidating stature, the man shrunk in on himself under the scrutiny of his daughter. Dressed in a grey tailored suit, the older man had an air of refinement about him. Being taller, and of a darker complexion than Tracee, many would assume him to be something he was not. If Sam hadn't heard his boisterous laugh just a moment ago, and the affectionate way he treated his daughter, he would have assumed the man to be stoic. Now he appeared quite shaken by Tracee's demand. "I… suppose this has been a long time coming," he eventually said. His large hand nervously rubbed at his mouth, thumb and pointer finger stroking the facial hair around his mouth. "I have dreaded this day for a long time."

"… As have I, father," Tracee admitted.

"Well then… I'll put the kettle on. There are many things to discuss."

Tracee stiffly nodded her head. Then her father made a beeline for the kitchen. Once he had disappeared around the corner, she breathed out and dropped her arms. Immediately, Sam wrapped an arm around her waist. She relaxed under his touch. "I didn't realize him admitting that he knew this whole time would… affect me like this," Tracee murmured. Dean nudged her arm with his elbow. She turned to him.

"It'll be fine," he assured her. "Whatever we hear today won't change anything." Tracee nodded her head again, more at ease than before. Sam guided her to seat on the couch. He sat down on her left while Dean sat on her right. "So what's with Bubbles?"

"What?"

"Bubbles—he called you that," Dean supplied. "Why?"

"… A story for another time," Tracee muttered. She made a grab for the crossbow on the table. She smiled again as she caressed the underside. She held it up, getting a better look at it under the artificial light. With her finger on the trigger, she bit her lower lip. "He's so pretty." She continued to stroke the underside of the crossbow, unaware that her ministrations had caused Sam to shift uncomfortably. This was not the time to be thinking like that. His eyes averted to the ceiling, hoping his no one would notice. With a satisfied grin, Tracee set the weapon back down.

"Does pops normally buy you weapons?" Dean questioned.

" _Nah_ , he's only ever gotten me one katana and two crossbows—this one included," Tracee stated. "He usually gets them when he leaves for a long period of time. More than a year, I get a weapon." She leaned back and sighed heavily. "… I guess it's an apology for being gone for an extended period of time?"

"So what do you think he's gonna say?"

"I honestly don't know, Dean," she said. "It could be that he found out about me after I fell… Used all the resources available to him to find out why I had survived the drop. Why I had healed so fast. He found out and… didn't want such a dangerous life for me. Or it could be as Samuel said before. He knew all along, and trained me for the sole purpose of me becoming a Slayer. And that only raises more questions." Sam remembered it well. Her retaliation against his assumptions had been harsh. He had thought it had been the end of the line. She had been so angry. Even Dean's reassurances had fallen flat. Sam had just known she had wanted nothing to do with them. With him. But then she had walked across that street and had apologized. And had hugged him. He had known at that point that no matter how bad an argument got, they would make up. Like with himself and Dean. Absolute loyalty had begun forming that day.

Pursing his lips, Sam rested his hand on her knee. He could feel the tension leave her body as she sighed out. Tracee moved her hand over his, fingers curling and sliding between his. "Whatever we find out, we're here for you, Tracee," he told her. "We'll get through it." She smiled softly in return before tilting her head towards him. Sam had always liked when they had touched foreheads. It just seemed so intimate. And _theirs_. He shut his eyes and relished in the contact. "I've got you." He felt her nod, and then her lips against his.

" _Aww_ …" Dean drawled before Sam could return the chaste kiss. "You guys are gross." Sam shot his brother an annoyed looked, but was ultimately ignored. Tracee rolled her eyes, but she still smiled. "He's making tea? Do _I_ have to drink it?"

"What? You _love_ tea," Tracee said.

"No."

"Cassie told me you did."

"Cassie _also_ rode me on the regular. I loved what happened _after_ tea."

"I didn't need to hear that, Dean."

"Tough shit. Call it early karma for all the times I'm gonna catch _you two_ going at it."

"Fair point." She shrugged her shoulders. Dean scowled, probably not liking that she had confirmed his statement. "You're still going to have to drink it. Try to salvage that first impression with my father." He huffed lightly, crossing his arms. "Besides, no offense to my homegirl, but her tea's got nothing on my father's. I don't enjoy tea unless it's his."

Minutes later, Tracee's father came back to the living room, carrying a tray of mugs. The glass mugs were all a pea green color. He set the tray down and offered a mug to his daughter. After a bit of scrutiny, he handed a mug to Dean. Then it was Sam's turn to receive a mug. After unbuttoning his suit jacket, the man then sat down in the recliner chair. He cleared his throat. The atmosphere was very much awkward. Seemingly unconcerned, Tracee calmly sipped from her mug, holding it with both hands. Swallowing, Sam lifted the rim of his mug to his lips. He wasn't really a tea drinker, but the hot beverage wasn't so bad. Definitely better than any tea he had ever had. Tracee's father cleared his throat. "Right then…" he began. He shifted his maroon tie, slightly loosening it. "Allow me to properly introduce myself. My name is Victor Noland. It is my understanding that my daughter has been traveling with you two as of late."

"Yes, sir," Sam answered. "We met here, in Ashland, a few months ago."

"I see… and you know of my daughter's… extraordinary abilities?" he questioned. Both Sam and Dean nodded their heads. "Of course. Then… am I correct in assuming that you two are hunters?" The brothers exchanged a look. Clearly Victor had the knowledge. He frowned then, shutting his eyes. "To think I went through precautions to keep her from your world."

"Father…"

"How is it that you came across my daughter?" Victor asked.

Tracee placed her mug on the table. The sharp clink of glass against glass caused flinching by every male in the room. The collision had made cracks in the surface, appearing like veins and spreading to each end of the table. "Father," she repeated with more bite than before. "That is not important at the moment. I would like to know how deep your knowledge runs when it comes to the supernatural… and more specifically—your knowledge of Slayers. How long have you known?"

Victor sighed heavily. "Since I was a boy," he answered. Sam felt Tracee tense beside him. Again, his hand found her leg. His fingers squeezed the top of her thigh. She relaxed, but it hadn't been as instantaneous as last time. "I was raised to know of this different world. My parents taught me, whom were taught by their parents, and so on and so forth. Generation after generation. Age after age. It is our duty—our _fate_ —to know of the supernatural."

"A family of hunters?" Dean guessed.

"That's what you are? You're a _hunter_?" Tracee asked.

"No, my darling girl… I am a quite different from mere hunters. My duty was to protect the innocent, seek out individuals that are fully capable of tracking and fighting creatures who seek the destruction of humanity, and most importantly… find and train any potential girl by any means necessary. For the sole purpose of preparing them for their calling—the Council's ultimate tool. The Slayer. The Council has been around for thousands of years, along with the Slayer. We guide and condition her to combat whatever evil threatens the world. I am… what's known as a Watcher."

Sam stared in stunned disbelief. He may have blinked a few times in confusion. Duty. Calling. _Council_. Before his dream, he hadn't heard a similar speech. Two different men. Two different times. It wasn't a dream, but a vision. It had to have been a vision. But it had been so _different_. Why? Sam tried to remember everything he could about the vision because now had questions of his own. "So what—hunters and watchers are basically the same?" Dean asked. Victor snorted. His brother frowned, sensing the incredulity.

"Would you so quickly compare a chameleon to a _dragon_?" Victor questioned. There had been sarcasm in his words. Surely, there had been an insult somewhere in there, too, and Dean had picked up on it. Before he could open his mouth and tell the older man what exactly he thought of that question, Tracee nudged his arm. The action had successfully calmed his brother down. Sam, himself, felt similar, but he knew that reacting in a hostile way would impede the flow of information. "You hunters fumble in the dark, guessing your way through… _jobs_. Uneducated, uncultured, unprepared—you rush headlong into dangers you know nothing about and _die_. You American lot are worse—shooting first and asking question later. Completely uncivilized."

Dean moved, obviously having had taken his fill of some stranger telling him how awful their lives were. However, Tracee had been faster. She lightly touched the top of Dean's thigh and squeezed. Sam could tell his brother was still irate, but the contact had prevented him from lunging at Victor. The older man seemed unconcerned by the reaction, but his eyes did narrow at the physical contact his daughter had initiated. "Do no insult my friends' lifestyle, father," Tracee warned. "They do their best, and their best happens to save lives."

"… My apologies…" Victor murmured. "Hunters and the Council has never really seen eye to eye, unless they were working for us… I suppose that's all irrelevant now. The Watcher's Council is no more."

"What does that mean?" Tracee asked, sliding her hand from Dean's thigh.

"Shortly before what happened in 2003, the Council was destroyed. A great evil systematically attacked Watchers and potentials alike in an effort to completely destroy the Slayer line. The headquarters was bombed, too, so a lot of the resources were destroyed. After that evil was defeated, the surviving resources were taken over by Buffy Summers and her entourage," Victor explained. "She is the reason you were activated."

"Buffy…?" Dean snorted. Tracee must have shot him a look because the mirth disappeared as he cleared his throat. "Sorry. Continue."

"She founded the Slayer Organization, and it has replaced the Council," Victor continued. "They find activated Slayers and train them. I wanted no part of it. I didn't want _you_ to be a part of it. So I erased any record of myself and you. They do not know we exist."

"Back up," Tracee shook her head. "How did you survive the attacks? You were in London at the time, weren't you?"

"Yes, but I was working," Victor stated.

"You're _really_ an accountant then?"

"Yes," he replied, sounding slightly offended. "The Council paid well, but maths are my true passion."

"Okay, fine… You say you are a Watcher. That you trained me from an early age? You knew I'd be a Slayer?"

"No, my darling girl… Despite the Council's resources, we had no idea which potential would be called after a Slayer died. Our only choice was to locate every potential we could in order to hone their skills for when they _might_ be called. Science wasn't used to locate potentials. It was magic. Magic isn't always black and white, however. There was no true way of knowing which girl would become Slayers. Despite my teachings for you, I never thought you would become. The activation of all potentials was an unprecedented event that changed _everything_."

Tracee became silent, allowing the information to sink in. Honestly, Sam's suspicions about the man had been confirmed. He had been wrong about the hunter thing, but right about everything else. Victor Noland—and the Council, he supposed—had found her. Adopted her. Trained her for some sacred duty that may or may not have come to pass. Had it not been for whatever spell that had activated all potentials around the world, Tracee would have lived out her days, unaware. His eyes glanced at his girlfriend, wondering about her thoughts. She bowed her head, gaze focused solely on her lap.

"You adopted me because I was a potential?" The question sounded more like a statement. Her father gave an affirmative. "You raised me, took care of me, and made me love you for fourteen years because someone _ordered_ you to?" Despite the calmness of her words, her voice sounded watery. Like at any moment she could burst into tears. Sam's insides clenched in a painful way. "Do you even love me?" Oh. He hadn't even thought of that. Victor wasn't a blood relative. He had no obligation to her when it came down to it. To Tracee, this new information brought feelings of doubt when it came to their relationship.

"Of course I do!" Victor nearly cried out, looking startled by the assumptive question. Tracee lifted her head, but the frown remained on her face. "It… it may have started out as an order from the Council, yes. Those first few months, you were a burden. I never wanted children—didn't particularly care for them either—and you were such a difficult child. Understandable, given what happened to your biological parents and the six months you spent in an inadequate foster care system. But I tolerated the new presence in my life because, yes, it was an order, and I always followed orders." The older man slid forward, sitting on the edge of his seat. "But then you smiled at me, Tracee. After months of silence and wary looks from you, you smiled at me, and… I knew you were mine. I knew that I would protect you for the rest of my days. My darling girl, my child, my Bubbles—you were no longer just an order. Of _course_ I love you. That will never change."

"… Okay…" Tracee whispered. "I understand." She might have understood, but Sam could still sense the hurt. She was just too rigid to accept his words at face value. Eventually maybe, but not right now. Not when all this information was being thrown at her at the same time. She must still have questions. "Explain to me what you did in 2003 when you heard I fell from the top of the library."

"… I didn't know what to expect when I came home. I certainly did not expect a Slayer," Victor stated. "But you were completely healed by the time I came home. Not a scratch. It was as though you had never fallen. If you hadn't told me yourself, I wouldn't have believe you fell in the first place. The Headmaster was very cross, but I convinced him to cover up your fall. I then worked hard to figure out what happened. Any Slayer could have survived that fall, but to my knowledge, you were well pass the age of calling. To me, your survival had been miraculous. However, I found out about the spell, and knew you had become a Slayer."

"Slayers tended to be called during their teenage years?" Sam questioned.

"That's correct, so it was quite the surprise when my daughter gained the power of a Slayer at twenty-one."

For a few tense moments, no one spoke up. Dean then cleared his throat, preparing to speak. "So… how good is Trace's protection?" he asked. Victor appeared confused by the question. Sam furrowed his brow as well, wondering what it meant. Dean inclined his head towards Tracee. "That thing around her neck. We've got a friend that says it's gotta powerful protective spell on it. How good is it?"

"Fairly good. She virtually invisible to most locater spells, those that might be able to sense her, and even aura readers would have a hard time getting a proper read on her," Victor replied. "Spirits, on the other hand, she is not hidden from. I suspect its an innate otherworldly ability they share. We've been lucky so far when it comes to them."

"What? Are you a wizard now, father?"

"The proper word is warlock… and no. I did not cast the spell on that necklace," Victor explained. "Magic isn't my strong point. No. It was given to me. A memento of sorts. I hadn't known it's capabilities until after you were adopted."

"By who?" Tracee crossed her arms. "Who gave you the first gift that I received from you?"

Victor clasped his hands together and clenched his jaw. "It was collected after…" He pressed his lips together. "Do you remember anything about your father—your true father?" Tracee didn't answer, but her face hardened as though she didn't like the turn the conversation had gone. "I never knew him, but there were… stories. Infuriating. Eccentric. Intelligent. That is how your father was described by those sent to retrieve you. He was among the smartest men the Council has ever come across. He made fools of all of them. The last time, the Council realized they had been… played with. He had admitted to seeing through the story of wanting talented young girls for a prestigious education. From that, he discovered the Council's true nature and refused each proposal. The Council eventually gave up. Word of Andre Evans' death, as well as his wife's, came months later. I was sent to retrieve you from the foster care system."

"Evans…?!" Sam blurted in surprise. Three pairs of eyes turned his way. Damn. He hadn't met to say it out loud. Both his brother and Tracee stared at him, eyebrows knitted together. Sam swallowed, focusing on Victor. "Evans," he said again, voice steady despite the thunderous way his heart beat in his chest. "You're sure that was his last name?"

"Of course I'm sure," Victor replied. "Tracee's original family name is Evans. Why are you surprised?"

"Because I don't normally introduce myself with my original name," Tracee answered, but kept her eyes on him. "Samuel…?"

"I…" He swallowed hard. If he was right, then the dream/vision had been more personal than he had anticipated. But he needed to be sure. "Tracee… Was your dad bald? Did he talk… _funny_ sometimes? Just to mess with people?" She looked startled by the questions, which only confirmed his uncertainties. Now that he looked at her closely, and remembered the man from his dream, they looked similar. Similar skin tones. Similar noses. Similar dark eyes of steel when provoked. "I had a… a dream about him. I think he was talking to another… Watcher."

"You _what_ …?!" Victor exclaimed just as Dean hopped up from the couch to stand at his side. Tracee remained where she was, hand moving to grab his.

"When?" she asked.

"Last night," Sam admitted. "I thought it was just a dream because…"

"It didn't hurt."

"Yeah. And your dad—he was wearing similar clothes to that movie we watched— _House Party_ —so I assumed-"

"It's okay, Samuel," Tracee assured him.

"What else did you see?" Dean prompted. "What were they talking about?" Sam shut his eyes, forcing the images of his dream back into his mind. Now that he thought about it, and Tracee's father had given context, the vision had begun to make sense. Out loud, he paraphrased the conversation as best as he could. "Dude…" Dean's voice sounded hesitant. "If that's all true—if you saw all that—you know that that _means_?" Sam nodded somberly. He did know that it meant. Tracee's dad. The clothes. The conversation. His 'sweet baby girl.' All that meant one thing—Sam had seen the _past_. It meant his abilities were heightened to the point where he didn't just see forward anymore. That type of sight had never been heard of before. The vision of the past meant… he was a freak among freaks.

Sam felt Tracee's grip on his hand become stronger. He snapped his gaze to her, not realizing he had lowered his line of sight in the first place. She stared at him, eyes showing sympathy, but also determination. "Not now," she told him. "What else did you see?" Sam swallowed hard. Right. Right. They didn't get their visions for no reason. There was always relevant information. And right now, that information was more important than his own personal crisis.

"After the… Watcher left, your dad pulled out a necklace and said he would let the world burn as long as it wasn't you," Sam answered. Now that he had the context of the conversation, he could recognize the pendant of his dream. With his free hand, he reached up and curled his pointer and middle fingers around Tracee's neckline. He slowly pulled it down, revealing the silver chain around her neck. Her dark brown eyes darted down as his fingers came into contact with the blue pebbled gem.

She gasped sharply, rearing away from Sam. Hastily, she stood up, turning her focus on her father. "My dad had this before you!" she accused. "You said you collected it after… after my parents died… Was the spell on this before or after you collected it?"

"It's the reason it was collected in the first place," Victor stated. "The team sent to investigate—to cover up anything that might need it—discovered that necklace among your father's belongings. They were able to sense the residue of blood magic radiating from it. Somehow, your true father was responsible for the spell. Even now, it is unknown how he managed the spell in the first place. Before the Council came into his life, it was assumed that he had no knowledge of the real happenings of the world."

"And you just gave this to me—a child?"

"It was for you, my darling girl— _meant_ for you."

"So what you're saying is that if anyone else wears it, it won't work?" Dean asked.

"Blood magic is often tied to relatives."

"Don't know crap about blood magic."

"Uneducated, indeed," Victor snorted.

"Father, _please_!" Tracee interjected before Dean could retort. The two men settled down, pointedly looking away from one another. "Is there any merit in my dad's concerns? Would the world _burn_ if I'm not a part of this life?"

"N… No, you have no obligation to your duty. It does not fall entirely to you or any one specific Slayer," Victor said. "As your father wanted, you have your free will. As it is now, you can be a normal girl."

"… I'll never be _normal_ , father," Tracee confessed. "I made my peace with that a long time ago." She hugged herself, and Sam felt the urge to replace her arms with his. "I am a Slayer, and I've already chosen this path."

"And I suppose it would be futile to pull you from it?" Victor asked. Tracee glanced back at them, slight smile touching her face. Sam knew her answer before she gave it. And _God_ did it feel good.

"It would be," she confirmed, turning back to her father. "I will continue to road trip with Dean and Samuel. We're going to hunt. We're going to slay. Duty or not, it's a decision—one I've already made. I will not turn from the path I've only just started on."

Victor released the heaviest of sighs. He shut his eyes and rubbed his forehead. For a moment, he didn't reply, and in the silence that followed, Sam was half-worried the man would forbid his daughter from going anywhere. As a Slayer, Tracee was resistance to the dangers of the things they came in contact with. Resistance did not mean invulnerability. It would be dangerous, but Sam would be damned before he let it be fatal. He was certain Dean felt the same. With the three of them looking out for each other—for the first time in a long time, he felt contented with this life.

"Fine," Victor eventually said. "I suppose it would be fool's errand to convince you otherwise." He stood up from the recliner chair. "However, I will not send you off with them." Tracee opened her mouth, eyes narrowing and shoulders tense with protest. Her father held up a pacifying hand. " _Not_ as they are," he continued. "It is clear to me that they are just like any other hunter. I will not allow my daughter to travel with the untrained." He shifted a hard gaze on Sam and Dean. "A clairvoyant with no knowledge of how to interpret his own visions—never mind a Slayer's vision—and an average hunter who clearly relies on luck and such to get through those so called _jobs_." Sam didn't need to look at his brother to know that he was scowling. "No, I will not leave my daughter in the hands of uneducated fools." He walked, clearly heading for the kitchen. "Come with me—the three of you." Without waiting for a response, the man disappeared around the corner.

"Does he _have_ to be so damn insulting?" Dean groused.

"It's probably a British thing," Sam remarked.

Tracee gave them both unimpressed looks before following after her father. The two brothers shared a look. Obviously, both of them were disgruntled by the evaluation by Victor Noland. But he had made several fair points. The Watcher's Council must have had extensive knowledge about the supernatural. What their own father knew must pale in comparison. The Council, although apparently destroyed, had information spanning back centuries. For now, it would be in their best interests to find out as much as they could. So with a sigh, Sam hurried after Tracee. He heard Dean's footsteps behind him.

The three of them entered the kitchen to see Victor opening the door to the adjacent room. His study that they hadn't been allowed in. He gestured for the three to follow as he walked further in. The room itself wasn't much larger than the kitchen, and with it's wood furnishing, it looked to be a standard study room. Victor moved towards the far end of the room, going behind his desk. At the bookshelf, he began sliding books from their place, but not exactly pulling them from the shelf itself, in a seemingly random order. Finally, he turned to them with his fingers poised to pull another book. Unlike before, when he slid the book out of place, a distinct click could be heard.

To Sam's surprise, the floor moved, sliding out of place to reveal a staircase going down. " _Whoa_ …!" Tracee seemed surprised as well. "You got the panic room, anyway!" Victor pursed his lips and coughed into his fist.

"It's not a panic room," he said. He began the descent. "It's where I keep your… inheritance. Come along." Absentmindedly, Tracee nodded her head before following her father down the steps. Right behind her, the Winchesters made their way down the single flight of stairs. They hit the bottom and lights flickered on. There stood in a room that structurally had to be underneath the kitchen. The basement had been on the other side of the house. So the house had had two under ground floors. On the grey walls, weapons were hanging. Medieval weapons like axes and swords. There were several types of morning stars, daggers, and scythes. It was an underground bunker of weapons. Tracee released another squeal of 'Whoa!' as she darted from their side to inspect another bookshelf.

Sam almost grinned at her enthusiasm for books. Dean let out a whistle as he examined the weapons on the walls. "These are… books about the supernatural, aren't they?" Tracee questioned with an open book in her hands. Sam went over to her, eyes scanning the words of the pages she had been looking over. Sure enough, the content of the books described spirits. It was handwritten. "How long have you had this stuff?"

"Since we've gotten the house," Victor answered. "These are copies I have acquired through the years. They are a collection of journals, logs, and diaries that I have kept on the chance of you becoming. They belong to our predecessors—Watchers and Slayers alike, and will ultimately allow the three of you to ascend your current knowledge."

"Hold on there a minute, teach," Dean cut in. "We don't have forever to _ascend_ , alright? We've got other priorities that need to be dealt with."

"He's right," Tracee agreed, snapping the book shut. "They have goals, and staying here isn't going to help anyone."

"I'm not asking for forever… Just a week," Victor said. "That isn't enough time, but I understand, so I ask for a week to gain further knowledge so I can feel content with allowing you to travel with these hunters. Please, Tracee."

"I… It's not up to me," she murmured.

"Well then…" Victor directed his line of sight between Sam and Dean. "I would give you the most precious thing I have in this world. Would you two willingly leave behind the knowledge to protect my daughter? Right at your fingertips are things that could keep her safe. Keep her from dying—would you part with that information to further your own agenda?" The questions were obvious ploys to make them feel guilty. The man hadn't even been subtle. They all knew it. Tracee shifted uncomfortably, though, eyes darting back and forth between the two Winchesters.

"No," Dean answered.

"No," Sam echoed.

Guilt had nothing to do with their answers.

0-0

A week had not been enough. As Victor Noland watched his only child climb into the backseat of a black Impala, he couldn't help but think the week had been for not. He still felt terribly upset that Tracee had decided to _be_ a Slayer. Hidden by the blinds and curtains of the window, his daughter and her traveling companions did not suspect or see the tears streaming down his face. His chest hurt, heart mourning the loss of his child before it could ever happen. "I am sending my daughter to the slaughter," he whispered.

"You are doing the right thing," the being whispered back from behind him.

"Pardon me, but… it doesn't feel that way." His retort was met by silence. "All for the sake of your champions."

"You are saving her from mediocrity. She will do her duty and it will count. It will be meaningful, I promise you." Victor watched the Impala pull out of the driveway. With his knuckles, he reached up to wipe away the tears. Fourteen years mattered little in the grand scheme of things, he had told himself so long ago. Watching his child leave now, knowing the fate that awaited her, he wished he could take back the promise—take back the foolish decision he had made in his youth. She might have been better off with her parents. Had this been the exact feeling of her true father before he had conducted such a powerful spell to keep her safe? "Thank you for your service. You will not hear from me again."

The being's presence disappeared altogether, and Victor felt like he could breathe again. He released a shaky breath. No longer could he see the Impala from his line of sight. He would just have to hope then. A week might not have been enough time for him to feel comfortable with sending Tracee off with those hunters—Dean and Sam—but perhaps it had been enough for the champions to rise without the need of sacrifice. Perhaps planting the knowledge within them would prevent his daughter from burning. At all. As it stands, he could only hope.

0-0

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I played with the canon timeline a little bit. :D Story will jump back into canon next chapter.


	17. Blood

The trip to Colorado had been a relatively short one. They had made a stop in Nebraska because they had heard rumors of supernatural things. Turns out, those rumors had been made up by some local kids. After a week of being holed up in Ashland, Ohio, the first case the three had had had been a bust. So while they were in Nebraska, Sam had discovered an article about a Daniel Elkins being mauled by a bear in his home. At first, it hadn't seemed like their type of thing, but Dean had gotten a strange feeling of knowing the name. The name, at least a part of the name, had been in John Winchester's journal. The trio had immediately packed up and drove to the next state over to investigate.

Tracee shivered lightly, waiting for Sam to finish picking the lock to the mauled victim's home. The cabin had been found in the morning hours, but they had waited until nightfall to actual try to get inside. She had offered to kick down the door, but the two had brought up a valid point of not wanting anyone else to know they had been here. But the longer she stayed in the cold, holding a flashlight so that Sam could see what he was doing, the more she wanted to kick down the door despite logic.

Finally, a soft click entered her ears, signaling that the lock had been successfully disengaged. Sam stood to his full height as Dean pushed open the door. He quickly pocketed his tools before pulling out a flashlight of his own. The older Winchester stepped in first, cautiously moving his flashlight about. Tracee followed after. The first room they came across had been horribly trashed. Bear attack, her ass. It looked as though someone—or several—had straight ransacked the place. Tracee grimaced as the shine of her light met the dried blood on the desk. After, of course, they had had their way with the poor guy this cabin had belonged to. "Looks like the maid didn't come today," Dean remarked with a shake of his head.

"Hilarious, Dean," Tracee muttered, rolling her eyes. The older brother merely grinned at her. She helplessly grinned back. From the hallway—or rather, the front door—Sam yelled that he had found salt. "Salt for demons or snow?" she called back. The youngest of them came up behind her, wiping his hand on the side of his jeans.

"It's clearly a ring," he answered. Tracee narrowed her eyes at the implication. Well, she had had her suspicions once Dean had found the name in the journal, but it looked as though the poor guy had been actually a hunter. "You think this guy, Elkins, is a player?"

"Definitely," Dean was the one to answer. The two of them moved to stand on either side of the older Winchester, shining their lights down on what seemed to be a journal. Both eyebrows raised at the contents. Tracee hadn't exactly read the words, but it looked too similar to the journal she often read when bored on the road.

"That looks a hellava lot like dad's," Sam remarked.

"Except this dates back to the 60s," Dean stated.

After flipping through the journal, and finding nothing else of consequence, the three headed further into the cabin. Tracee had wanted to take the journal, too, but it was important to leave everything as much the same before they had entered. Wouldn't want local authorities to pick up their trail, after all. When it had been drilled into her head, she had assumed the two had taken cautionary measures when creeping around. The idiots had never worn gloves, though. She had nearly begged in New York when they had gone to steal the painting. Fortunately, she hadn't had to do that this time.

The next room had been worse than the first. Tracee frowned as she noted more blood. It was everywhere. It all looked so unnecessary. Her eyes honed in on the glass on the floor before her gaze shifted up towards the ceiling. Clearly, the culprits had crashed right through. She eyed the knocked over bookcase and saw the scratches on the floor near it. Not to mention the door had been forcibly opened. "I'd say multiple attackers. Some came in through the door, after the victim pushed this bookcase in front of it, so I'm thinking strong assailants. The others came in through the window up top," Tracee said. "Entries were careless and probably meant to be intimidating. They made him suffer, seemingly for fun, and trashed his place just because they could."

"Looks like he put up a fight," Dean commented.

"Doubtful," Tracee muttered. "He was old. There were more of them, and they quickly overpowered him. Hunter or not, he knew the end was near. By himself, it would be useless to fight back. My question is why he would come rushing to this particular room, knowing this room wasn't capable of defending him? And he didn't try to go through that door to escape." Two beams of light shined on her. She squinted and shielded her eyes. "What?"

"Nothing… I just forgot how into this stuff you are," Sam said, a bit of a smile working its way on to his face.

"Oh, I'm _so_ into this," Tracee confessed. "Gets the blood pumping, you know?"

"Whatever, weirdo," Dean scoffed before focusing on other aspects of the room. Shrugging, Tracee went back to searching the room. This is where the attack happened, and she didn't want to miss a thing. Honestly, forming theories about murder scenes was the best. Of course, it was terrible that murders happened, but figuring out motivations, gathering evidence, and finally solving the mystery was all so good. It sent chills down her back just thinking about it. Tracee reached up to scratch at her neck as the Winchesters continued to look around. Probably should tone down her excitement though. The victim had been a fellow hunter, after all. "Hey, Trace, come here," Dean's voice caused her to look towards him. He had been couched down, shining a light over some blood on the floor. In his other hand, he had grabbed a pencil and a sheet of paper from the nearby desk.

"Got something…?" Sam questioned.

"I don't know… Some scratches on the floor," Dean answered. Tracee moved closer to him to inspect the so called scratches. They indeed looked like scratches. However, they didn't look recent. They were worn and appeared deliberate. The Slayer tried hard not to grin at the obvious clue. Dean, unaware of her growing glee, passed his flashlight to her. She accepted it and watched as he pressed the paper to the floor. He used the pencil to trace the markings. His blue latex gloves nearly glowed under the two beams of light. Once finished, he tossed the pencil and picked up the paper. His sketch was accompanied by the blood. He held it up to his face. "Looks like a message." He handed it to his brother. "Look familiar?"

"Three letters, six digits—the location and combination of a post office box," Sam stated. "It's mail drop."

"How do you know that?" Tracee asked.

"That's just the way dad does it," Dean replied.

"Your dad's weird and unreasonably cautious." The two brothers both gave her looks like they couldn't believe her nerve. "My father is not this bad—shut up." When their looks remained the same, she huffed in annoyance. "Can we just go now?"

About ten minutes later, Tracee found herself sitting in the passenger seat of the Impala, waiting for the Winchester to return from breaking into the local post office. Couldn't wait until the morning hours. Oh no, they wanted to add a federal crime to their long list of illegal activities. She hadn't wanted part of that, so she remained in the car despite the fact she was itching to discover the contents of the mail drop as well. The two brothers were across the street. She could see them from her vantage point. She could also see if anyone else decided to walk down the street. It was a pretty small town in the dead of night, so the chances of that happening were pretty slim.

Eventually, both Dean and Sam left the post office and hastily made their way across the street. The older brother took his place in the driver's seat while the younger climbed into the back. Sam had a white envelope in his hand. "Addressed to J.W.," he announced, handing his brother the envelope. "You think—John Winchester?"

"Don't know," Dean murmured, examining the envelope as though he could guess what it could possibly say. "Think we should open it?" Before Tracee could eagerly give him an affirmative answer, a knock on his window startled them all. Her eyes snapped up from the envelope to see a figure standing outside of the door. The man leaned down, revealing himself as John Winchester. "Dad…?!" Dean's incredulity was met by a small grin as the man moved to slid in the backseat right behind him. Tracee sighed, willing her heart to calm down. Their dad was going to give her a heart attack one day. His sudden appearance had been as surprising as the first time.

"Dad, what are you doing here? Are you alright?" Sam questioned as John settled in.

"Yeah, I'm okay," he answered. "Look—I read the news about Daniel. Got here as fast as I could. I saw you three up at his place. Had to make sure someone else hadn't followed you. Or something… Nice job of covering your tracks, by the way."

"Yeah, well, we learned from the best," Dean replied, clearly pleased with the compliment. If his hair were any longer, Tracee was sure he would flick the ends of it in a proud manner. Stifling an affectionate eye roll, she listened to the younger Winchester as he questioned why his father had traveled all the way out here for Daniel Elkins.

"He was… a good man," John stated, nodding his head. "He taught me a hellava lot about hunting."

"You never mentioned him to us," Sam stated. Honestly, Tracee didn't know the man well, but she was certain there was a lot of things John Winchester never mentioned to his sons. However, she did know Sam. She was absolutely certain that the tall man never liked not knowing something. She could guess that most of their arguments stemmed from knowing and not knowing particular pieces of information.

"We had a… We had kinda a falling out," John told them, vague as ever. Out of the corner of her eye, she noted the gradual tension of Sam's shoulder. See? Case in point. "I hadn't seen him in years." Clearly, the man was not going to explain this falling out. John gestured to the envelope in Dean's hand. "I should look at that." The older brother immediately gave the envelope to his father. John breathed in deeply as he opened it and pulled out the letter. _If you're reading this, I'm already_ _dead_ had been the first sentence of the message. John continued to read the letter silently while Tracee had to stop herself from wiggling in place. Clichéd, but she loved it. "That son of a bitch," John's voice broke through her thoughts of the murder mystery.

"What is it?" Dean asked.

"He had it this whole time!"

"Had _what_?" Tracee shifted in her seat, a poor attempt to look at the writing.

"When you searched the place, did you see…?" John began. His eyes looked hopeful, but it appeared as though he hadn't wanted to convey that. He cleared his throat, and his expression returned to neutral. "Did you see a gun? An antique—a Colt revolver—did you see it?"

" _Uh_ … There was an old case," Dean mentioned. "But it was empty." John visibly deflated at the news, muttering to himself that 'they must have it.' "You mean whatever killed Elkins?"

"We've got to pick up the trail," John didn't bother to answer the question as he moved to get out of the Impala. Tracee felt her eyebrow twitch at his evasive actions. It wasn't her place to say anything, but if she was becoming annoyed, then she knew it was only a matter of time before Sam showed his displeasure.

"Wait…!" Sam exclaimed. "You _want_ us to come with you?"

"If Elkins was telling the truth, we have to find this gun," John said, leaning down and gripping the top of the open window.

"The gun? Why?" Sam questioned.

"Because it's important—that's why," came the flippant response. The younger Winchester swelled up, obviously getting irritated. Tracee mentally shook her head, knowing the storm was coming.

"Dad, we don't even know what these things are yet!" he protested, voice almost showing how ticked off he was becoming.

"They were what Danny Elkins killed best… Vampires."

" _Vampires_ …?!" Tracee exclaimed. Because of her near squeal, the Winchester men turned her way. She sank down, slightly embarrassed. "I thought there wasn't many of them left…" she muttered to explain her excitement. "Everything I've read so far has alluded to their extinction. Or, in my opinion, to their collective thoughts of laying low so they won't be found by hunters." And Slayers, she continued in thought. Admittedly, from what she had gathered, since 2003, there had been a major drop in their numbers. One guess as to why had to be because of the activation of Slayers. Since she had come in so late to the game, Tracee believed she wouldn't have a chance to face one. Let alone multiple.

"I thought Elkins and… and others were responsible for wiping them out," John explained, narrowing his eyes at her. "I was wrong. Apparently, they _were_ laying low. Staying under the radar from those that would hunt them." He frowned, looking thoughtful. "You seem to know a lot about them. What else can you tell me, girlie?" Tracee narrowed her eyes right back at him. That felt like a trick question. Like, he was anticipating shooting her down. Mentally, she huffed. Unfortunately for him, he didn't know Dean called her a nerd for a reason.

"First off, there is a common misconstruction about their weaknesses. In the media, and in the hunter community," she began. "Vampire lore is mostly a popular belief, but it is based on facts. Like the cross—it's not going to ward them off. But direct contact with a cross will burn them. Not in a traditional sense of them bursting into flames, but it'd give them a bad rash—much like the sun. The sun isn't lethal to them either, by the way—painful but not deadly. Maybe, at one point, it was, but like all creatures, vampires have learned to adapt. They can be in the sun, so no one would know a vampire by sight."

"… Impressive," John remarked. "You know the only way to kill them?"

"I know the most _popular_ way to kill them," Tracee corrected. "But decapitation isn't the only way. You can set them on fire, and a wooden stake to the heart will kill them as well."

"You're wrong about the stake, girlie," he retorted. "It won't do much good."

"Maybe for _you_ ," she sassed. Realizing how she had sounded, Tracee cleared her throat. "I mean… most people won't even try it because it requires a hit dead center. Not nicking the heart. Not slightly off point. _Dead center_. In the heat of the moment, that would be unwise to attempt because you've got to get real close and if you miss, the hunter becomes the hunted. Same with aiming from far away. Over the years, it has boiled down to 'it won't work' instead of 'it's really difficult.' But I assure you, the heart is definitely another way to kill them."

" _Hm_ …" John hummed noncommittally. Tracee raised a brow, waiting for his riposte. "You ever kill a vampire that way?"

"There's a first time for everything."

"And a last." Tracee couldn't stop the offended snort if she tried. "We have to pick up the trail. For now, though, you need to rest." He walked off without another word.

" _Wow_ … Your dad is something else," Tracee nearly growled through clenched teeth.

"You _seriously_ have no room to talk about dads," Dean told her. "I just spent an entire week with yours. Seriously, if I start saying _bloody_ like a cuss word, I'm turning in my badass badge."

"Shut up."

"Why are you so excited about vampires, anyway?" Sam questioned.

"Because they're my calling card!" Tracee replied, excitement returning. "I didn't think I'd get the chance to slay one!" An uncontrolled giggle erupted. "I can't want to-" She stopped, realizing that blurting out that she had planned to rub the kill in Cassie's face would probably not be a good idea. "-to make stakes and send them to their maker!"

"You're a weirdo," Dean remarked with a shake of his head.

 

0-0

 

A silent jaw-popping yawn stretched Tracee's face. She wasn't working with a full night's sleep. They had found a motel, but John Winchester had head a police call that had made him think the vampires were involved. So with roughly three hours of sleep, the four of them resumed the case. She doubted John had gotten any sleep at all. With her arms folded over her chest, Tracee leaned against the hood of the Impala, along with Sam. Dean watched his father speak with the local police that had been called to the scene. He stood up straight with his hands in his pockets. Despite the lack of snow, it was still pretty cold outside. Luckily, it wasn't windy as well or she would definitely have chosen to remain in the car.

"I don't see why we couldn't have gone over with him," Sam muttered, bitterness creeping into his voice. Dean turned towards his brother, frowning. Tracee lazily slid her eyes to the taller brother as well.

"Oh, don't tell me it's already starting," Dean groaned.

"What's starting…?" Sam scoffed, furrowing his brow.

Dean's frown deepened, but instead of answering, he turned towards John, who had made his approach. Tracee pushed herself away from the car, knowing exactly what the older brother had been implying. She had already known this would happen. It was the start of father and son, bumping heads. The push and pull of the knowing and the not knowing. It would probably be better to nip this in the bud. For everyone involved. "It was them," John confirmed as he came to a stop in front of them. "Looks like they're heading west. We'll have to double back to get around the detour."

"How can you be so sure?" Sam questioned.

"Sam…" Dean spoke with a warning in his voice.

"I just want to know we're heading in the right direction!" came the retort.

"We are," John insisted.

"How do you _know_?" Sam clearly wasn't going to let the matter drop. Dean sighed heavily, knowing the same. John stared at his youngest son for a moment before scoffing lightly. He pulled his hand from his pocket, showing a small pebble. Tracee pursed her lips, realizing that it was not a pebble at all.

"Is that a _fang_?" she grimaced at the sight.

"No fangs— _teeth_ ," John said, giving the smooth object to his eldest. Dean head it close to his eyes, but Tracee noted the elongated structure of it. "The second set descends when they attack." Surprising, his eyes looked her way. "Did you know they had a second set?" Tracee bristled at the question. It felt like the man was testing her. She didn't quite like it. John shifted his gaze from her to Sam. "Any more questions?" The youngest brother said nothing and averted his stare. His clenched jaw spoke volumes, though. "Alright. Let's get outta here. We're losing daylight." He began walking towards his vehicle. "And, Dean, why don't you touch up your car before you get rust? I wouldn't have given you the damn thing if I thought you were gonna ruin it."

What the actual _fuck_?

She could understand the strain between John and Sam. But that comment to his eldest had not been necessary, and it clearly hadn't been a teasing moment. That distressed look that had crossed Dean's face told her so. Tracee was seriously starting to become irate, especially since he hadn't bothered to check the reaction his comment had caused. If she didn't do something now, Sam would only use this as justification for the explosive argument that she knew was coming. Gritting her teeth, she hooked an arm around Dean's right and practically marched him in between the two vehicles. "What? Hey!" he protested, but didn't struggle to get away from her.

"Listen—I need you to ride with your dad for this trip," she suggested once they were out of earshot of both Sam and John. She released her hold on his arm, and then glanced in the truck's direction. For the moment, the older Winchester sat idle.

"Why?" Dean asked, knitting his brow in confusion.

" _Because_ I need to talk to your brother," Tracee stated.

"I swear, if you give him road head-"

"I was not even thinking that!" she squeaked in surprise. Then, just to be cheeky, she grinned. " _Now_ I am."

" _Argh_ , no! Gross…!"

"Seriously, though," Tracee ignored his scowl and red face. "It'd be in everyone's best interest if I can diffuse this ticking bomb before it explodes." Dean frowned and crossed his arms. She got a sense that he knew exactly what she was talking about. "I don't know your dad that well, but I know Samuel. You know the _both_ of them, so you know what's going to happen, right?"

"Yeah," he huffed.

"Let me talk to him, _alone_ , and try to head this off before it comes to blows. Maybe you can talk to your dad, too," Tracee said. Dean sighed heavily through his nose, but nodded in agreement. "Thank you… Now go with your dad… and I'll make Samuel _my_ daddy."

"Trace! _Stop_ it…!"

After giving him a quick peck to his cheek—to which he swatted at her—Tracee walked off, laughing loudly. It was sinful how delighted she became when making Dean uncomfortable. Well, he had done it to her many times when it came to Cassie. A little payback was his just rewards. She was still giggling when she opened the passenger door and slid in. "What was that about?" Sam asked her as she put on her seatbelt. "Is he going with dad?"

" _Shyeah_ , we decided he should talk to Poppa-Winchester—maybe get some more insight into this particular case," Tracee replied.

"Good luck with _that_ ," Sam grumbled.

"That's why _you're_ not doing it, sweetie."

He shot her an unamused look as he turned the engine. Only after his father's vehicle had drove by did he put the car in drive and began following. They drove mostly in silence. Obviously, Sam wasn't in the talking mood. Only a matter of time, she thought. For now, she would sit beside him and wait. Well, actually, she was going to read. Fiddling with the glove compartment, she pulled out a paperback book. She had traded in most of the books she brought along before they had all left Ashland again. This particular book was titled _Common Misconceptions_ , and it happened to be a favorite.

So for the next hour, they followed behind the large truck belonging to John Winchester. For the next hour, Sam only became more and more irritated. Try as she might, Tracee could not ignore the wiggling of his left leg or the way he switched from tapping the wheel with his fingers to squeezing it in a death hold. That jaw clench couldn't be ignored either. Tracee flipped another page of her book, but it was for show. Might as well poke the bear to see what she was dealing with.

"Are you going to tell me what's on your mind?" Tracee began.

"What do you mean?" Sam nearly grunted at her.

"I can _taste_ your anger." Her hyperbole was met with his scoff. She ignored it and flipped another page, attempting to look as nonchalant about the situation as she could. "Clearly, there's some animosity between you and Poppa-Winchester."

"No… No, I'm fine. We're fine," Sam insisted. "I'm happy he's okay. And I'm happy that we're all working together. It's _fine_." Obviously, it was the opposite, but Tracee remained quiet. She knew now that it had been brought up, he was going to rant. Only a matter of time. "It's just the way he treats us like we're children!" His exclamation burst out not three seconds later. Here we go. "He barks orders at us! He expects us to follow him _without_ question. He keeps on some crap need to know deal, and I'm sick of it!" Sam gripped the wheel and glared at the road ahead. Or maybe his fierce expression had been focused on the back of the truck. "And the way Dean just goes along with it is annoying as hell! Like he can't think for himself! We've been at this for a year without his supervision, but as soon as dad comes strutting in, Dean falls in line like a good little soldier! Hell, he's like a different person!"

"Come on, Samuel, you know the reason for that. The first order he disobeyed, you nearly died," Tracee responded calmly. She slid the book back into the glove compartment, and then turned her focus completely on Sam. "Because of what happened, Dean won't easily go against Poppa-Winchester, let alone question his orders. Unless the circumstances were extreme, I bet." He pursed his lips, not having a retort to that opinion. She hadn't said it out loud previously, but she felt that the experience Dean went through with the _Shtriga_ as a child had been a traumatizing one. Shit like that sticks with a person. No way that experience hadn't shaped his mindset. "Besides, on some level, Poppa-Winchester just might _view_ you as his soldiers. The guy was a Marine. The mindset probably bled through and it's the only way he knows."

"You're defending him? _Why_ are you defending him?!"

Sam's words came out more like an accusation than simple questions. "No, I'm not _defending_ him," Tracee stated. "I'm giving you a different perspective." Sam merely huffed in annoyance. "What would you do if some young upstart began questioning your every move after years of experience and routine? He's not used to your rebellious nature, Samuel." He sighed through his nose, but Tracee could see the tension beginning to fade. Despite how worked up he had gotten, he was still a being of logic.

"That doesn't give him the right to treat us like this," Sam murmured. "That way might have worked when we were kids, but not anymore."

Tracee nodded in agreement. "You're right. Things are different," she said, softly. She then unbuckled her seatbelt and slid closer to Sam, curling her legs on the seat to get as close as possible without downright sitting in his lap. He glanced at her, but made no comment to her sudden closeness. In fact, he smiled a bit. Good. He was calming down. She rested her right hand on his right thigh. "But Poppa-Winchester's not going to know how you feel unless you _tell_ him that his behavior's not okay." Tracee reached up, left hand sliding into his hair from the back of his neck. Sam shuddered at the sensation, and she grinned in triumph. He completely relaxed as she continued to tease his scalp with her fingertips and tangle her fingers in his curls. "Listen—I get how you feel, but maybe this isn't the best time to let your frustrations come to light. Afterwards, _shyeah_ , let him have it. I bet it'd be damn sexy."

A laugh escaped his mouth as he looked at her. Amusement and wonder showed in his eyes. "Oh yeah, Tracee. I see where your priorities are," he told her, grin lingering on his lips. She chuckled, glad that Sam seemed to be in a better mood. "How do you know this? How are you so good at this?" he asked. Smile growing, he shifted his attention back towards the road.

"My father and your dad are similar, I told you. Believe me, we used to bump heads all the time. But finally… we had a talk after I turned twenty-one, and ever since, he has treated me like an adult. Of course, I'm still his daughter, but he has learned to see me as a person, too. And if I can lay down some rules for my father, you can do it with Poppa-Winchester."

"Your father is way more intimidating, though."

"He's a giant teddy bear."

"Tracee, I didn't kiss you for an entire week while we were under the same roof."

"I thought you were doing that out of respect."

"Nope, it was definitely fear."

" _Heh_ … Well, I hope you plan on making that up to me." Tracee smiled coyly as he turned to look at her again. For just a second, his gaze dropped down to her lips before returning to her eyes. Her cheeks warmed, pleased by his obvious want. It had not been so obvious before. There had been instances, of course, but they had been subtle and fleeting. It had made her question if it had only been her imagination. Now, his stare was as daring as the first night she had kissed him. One of her better decisions. Sam leaned towards her, pressing his lips firmly against hers. Never mind the road, he took his time kissing her. Breathing her in like his very lungs needed it. Out of all the men she had been kissed by, Sam was the only one that made her feel _fire_. A deep burning inside her that was felt all over her body. It had been surprising and addicting, and probably the reason she had allowed him into her bed. What had happened next had been something she couldn't describe as mere sex. Their entire relationship couldn't be described as mere anything and paled in comparison to anything she had felt before.

Sam reared back just in time to swerve back into the right lane. "That's just the start, _Cherry_ ," he told her, appearing just as breathless as she. His gaze lingered a moment longer before focusing back on the road. The stretch of her smile actually caused the muscles in her neck to ache. And Dean wondered how she could possibly view Sam as the smoother of the two. Tracee sighed, perfectly content. Then she slid her hand up and down his chest. A small peck to his cheek caused him to chuckle, and try to kiss her mouth again. She reared back, though, and Sam gave her a pout.

"Not on the road," she admonished with a giggle. "Plenty of time for making up later."

 

0-0

 

They had driven for hours. Night had fallen and risen by the time the four had reached a destination. During the time it took to arrive, Sam had staunchly ignored how his dad had given directions without so much a thought as to why and how. To be honest, it had been a wonder how he had kept his cool despite how much he had wanted to demand answers. It still annoyed him, though. Yes, they had come to the right place, but would it have killed him to, at least, tell them his thought process? Perhaps they all needed to know how he had come to the conclusion that a raggedy old barn was the nesting site for the vampires. Not to mention this gun they had to get their hands on. A little insight would be preferred to this fumbling in the dark… Maybe Tracee's father had been right in his judging of hunters.

Anyway, the cars had been parked about half a mile away from the barn. The four of them were hidden amongst a thicket of trees, watching the decrepit building. There were several vehicles parked outside. Sam watched with narrowed eyes as another car drove up. A dark-haired man opened the door and got out. Another opened the barn's door for him. Sam couldn't make out the short conversation, but clearly they knew each other. The two men, supposedly vampires, entered the bar and shut the door behind them. They seemingly hadn't noticed their onlookers.

"Son of a bitch," Dean muttered. "So they're really not afraid of the sun."

"We don't even know that they're vampires," Sam grumbled.

"They are," his dad and Tracee spoke in unison. Crouching beside one another, they glowered. One of them actually knew while the other only assumed. Both of them thought they were the one who actually knew. Rolling her eyes, Tracee returned her line of sight back to the barn. After a moment, John did the same. "Sunlight hurts like a nasty sunburn," he continued. "The only way to kill them-"

"For _you_ ," Tracee cut in.

"-is by beheading," John finished, choosing to ignore her. "And yeah, they sleep during the day. It doesn't mean that they won't wake up."

"So I guess walking right in's not the best option," Dean commented.

"Actually, that's the plan."

"Oh, so there's a plan now?" Sam scoffed sarcastically.

"Sam…!" Dean scolded.

"We'd better go get weapons then," Sam muttered, standing to his full height. He purposely ignored his brother in favor of walking back towards the car. He couldn't bring himself to care at the moment. Tracee joined him not a second later. At least she understood where he was coming from. And of course she was right. For now, he could keep his thoughts to himself until the job was done. He couldn't resist snapping, though. That just wasn't happening. When they reached the Impala, Sam immediately unlocked the trunk and lifted the lid. He heard a hum from Tracee that caused him to look at her. She stared back at him with a raised eyebrow. He shook his head a bit in response to her unasked question. She seemed satisfied with it because she nodded, and then lifted the cover latch of the spare tire compartment, revealing the plethora of weapons.

Tracee had made several stakes out of tree branches beforehand, but she chose to grab her sword instead of one of the many pointed pieces of wood. Dean stood at his side and nudged him with his elbow. Sam ignored the slight contact and eyed his girlfriend as she slid her weapon through one of her belt loops. Maybe he should buy a sash for her so that she didn't have to keep holding on to the sheath. She'd make a cute—and very dangerous—samurai. Grinning to himself, he began preparing himself. "Dad, I've got an extra machete if you need one," Dean offered.

"Think I'm okay—thanks," John said, unsheathing his own weapon with unnecessary flourish. Sam snorted to himself, unimpressed by the overly large blade. "Let's get this done quickly and quietly. Don't attack unless you need to defend. Haul ass if it gets too dangerous. Understood?"

"Yes, sir!" Dean replied.

"Yes, sir," Sam said, less enthused than his brother. Tracee chose to remain silent.

"Good. Let's go."

As silently as they could, the group of four headed back to the barn. Not bothering to go through the front door, they went around the building. Dean was the one to spot an easy accessible window. He pointed and John nodded in approval. Their dad took the lead, hefting himself up to climb in through the opening. After a beat, John appeared again, gesturing to them that it was safe to enter. Dean followed after him. Tracee had to jump to reach the edge, but she had no trouble pushing herself up. Sam went in after, closing the shutters behind him. Quietly, they all jumped down from the stacks of hay. John was nowhere in sight in, but there were sleeping vampires, hanging in hammocks.

Beside him, Tracee shuddered and gripped the hilt of her sword. Sam took a glance in her direction as they began to move throughout the barn. Sensing vampires was something every Slayer could do. With so many of them around, he wondered if it would hinder her combat abilities. In various journals, Slayers mentioned that sensing the supernatural felt like insects crawling on their skin. The sense of vampires felt like needles. Tracee caught his eye and let a slight smile touch her face. Okay. Good. She wasn't bothered by multiple.

Swallowing, Sam focused on his task. The reason they were here was to find the missing 911 couple. Well, apparently, their dad was here for this mysterious gun. It was probably where he had disappeared to. The sound of an empty bottle knocking against the ground suddenly caught his attention. He sharply turned to face the noise, only to see his brother frozen. A wince on his face, Dean stared at the sleeping vampire, waiting to see if the noise had startled him awake. Fortunately, the noise hadn't done much damage. All the vampires were still asleep.

Dean sighed, and moved on. Tracee quietly called him a dork for his actions. To which Dean threw her an exasperated look. Sam shook his head, feeling a smile form on his face. Finally, he came across a woman who had not been sleeping in a hammock. Her wrists were bound to a pole and she appeared to be unconscious. One of the victims. She had dried blood on her clothes, too. Sam signaled for his brother at the same time Tracee had let out a whistle. She stood near a cage. At first glance, it looked like a wall. Dean headed over to her to see what she had found. "There's more," he whispered. "Can you break through it?"

"Not without making a whole lot of noise," Tracee replied.

While they set out to find a quiet way through to the other victims, Sam began to try to free the woman right in front of him. As his hands moved to untie her, he notice that she began to wake. Quickly, he tried to assure her that he was here to help before she could alert her captors with unnecessary noise. So it came as quite the shock when her eyes had cleared and had focused on him that she unleashed an ungodly cry. Not of panic, but of warning. Sam's eyes widened as the realization came to him. She was another vampire. He backed away, drawing his weapon. Her continued screaming woke up the other vampires. "Sam!" Dean shouted for him, no longer caring to keep quiet.

The vampires jumped out of their hammocks, staring them down. Disoriented, but that wouldn't last long. "Boys, _run_!" A shout came from John further in the barn. The yell broke the tense atmosphere and the vampires immediately came at them. Tracee made a run for the door and Sam turned to do the same.

"Dean! No!" Her astonished cry caused Sam to sharply turn, only to watch horrified as his brother was about to be overwhelmed by the four vampires. What? Why?! What happened? Tracee quickly ventured back, swinging her sheathed blade at the group and simultaneously grabbing Dean's hand. It happened in a blink, and even the vampires seemed caught off guard at the speed. The swipe of the wooden sheath had effectively warded the vampires away while his brother and girlfriend took off running in his direction. Satisfied that they were safe, Sam continued his run towards the door and into the safety of the sunlight. Hearing their rapid footsteps behind him caused relief to flood his system, but he didn't stop running. Not until they had reached the Impala. "What the _hell_ was that, Dean?!"

Sam turned around, nearly panting. Tracee was glaring at his brother, looking confused and angry. Dean seemingly ignored her, eyes darting around, probably in search of their dad. Not liking his diverted attention, Tracee clamped a hand down on his shoulder, forcing him to look at her. "I wasn't just going to leave dad behind!" he told her in a shout. The why hit him like a bowling ball against glass. Dean had run, but it had been in the direction of their dad. His brother had nearly gotten hurt, going after a man that may or may not have been in danger. Went after a man that had gone further in the snake's pit just to claim a gun no one else had known anything about. It shouldn't have—it _really_ shouldn't have—but it made Sam _furious_. Dean could have died going after their dad who seemed hell-bent on doing things alone and his way. "Dad? Dad?!" Dean called out, frantically looking around in search the missing Winchester.

After a long minute of wondering, John came into view, jogging over to them. Not out of breath. Not looking worse for wear. Not. In. Danger. "They won't follow," he told them confidently, only further adding to Sam's irritation. "They'll wait until tonight. Once a vampire gets your scent, it's for life." And that was the last straw. The know-it-all hadn't told them _anything_ so far. This entire time, he had been keeping thoughts to himself. Knowledge that could very well help them understand. Because as of right now, everything about this seemed for nothing. Dean almost getting hurt would have seemed for _nothin_ g. No. It stopped now. He wasn't going to risk his life for nothing. Neither his nor theirs.

"We need to talk!" Sam nearly growled through clenched teeth. John's eyes focused on him, frown tugging at his lips. Uncaring, Sam practically marched towards his dad. A vicious heat surged through his chest, making it hard to breathe. The anger was slipping through, and he was hard-pressed to try to put a lid on it. As if sensing the bubbling rage, John narrowed his eyes, giving a hard stare in return.

"About what?" he asked, voice taking on a hard edge. Admittedly, had Sam been any younger, his righteous anger would have deflated. His dad had always been intimidating. Physically and silently, Sam had always known John could cause lesser men to reevaluate a confrontation with him. However, he was no longer a lesser man.

"About _everything_!" he griped. "You haven't told us a _single_ thing about this job! This gun! Hell, Elkins is still a _fucking mystery_! Why did these vampires go after him? What the hell is so special about this stupid gun?! You're putting us at risk for no goddamned reason! And I am done with waiting for your master plan to unfold!"

"Sammy, come on! We can Q&A later after we're a little bit further away from the vampires!" Dean interjected. Sam continued to glare at his father despite knowing that his brother tried to calm him down.

"Your brother's right—we don't have time for this," John spoke calmly. The air of superiority only succeeded in infuriating Sam. He clenched his teeth so hard, his jaw ached. _This_ …? This being actual _answers_? Of course! There was never time for straight answers with this man! As long as _he_ knew, then everything was just fine and dandy. Screw that! Still, John was his dad. Unleashing all his rage on a family member—it had to be some type of rule against it.

"Last time we saw you, you said it was too dangerous for us to be together. Now, out of the blue, you need our help! Now obviously, something big is going down—big enough for you disappear when one of us is in _danger_ —and we wanna know what!"

"Get in the car," John spoke again. Sam swallowed, watching the man's eyes darken and sharpen on his form. Just as calm, he had demanded something of him without explaining anything. Without giving a reason. Just because Sam had stood up to him, his dad had, once again, become a smoldering force of command. But it had been worse than the last time. Last time, both of them had been shouting. It was unnerving that his dad hadn't become as red face as last time. He was _cold_. Nerves of steel that Sam hadn't seen before.

"No." Still, he had found his voice and had disobeyed the direct order. Defiantly, Sam stood to his full height, silently begging for his dad to lash out. Give him a _reason_ to explode. John took a step forward, getting close to his face. His dad was shorter, but his menacing presence was enough to choke. Swallowing hard, Sam willed himself not to falter under the piercing scrutiny.

"I said get in the damn car," John repeated, voice taking on a dangerous tone.

"Yeah. And I said _no_." For a heartbeat of a second, Sam thought his dad would lash out physically, and his body tensed in anticipation. However, Dean grabbed his arm, urging him to stand down, making a valid point that everyone was tired and that that was the reason for the hostility. Gritting, Sam allowed his brother to pull him towards the Impala. "This is why I left in the first place," he griped, turning his back to his dad.

"What'd you say?" John had the nerve to sound threatening.

"You _heard_ me!" Sam retorted, sharply turning to face him again.

"Oh, crap," Dean groaned.

Mostly, he was ignored. "Yeah. _You_ left. Your brother and me—we needed you," John continued, moving forward. His finger stabbed at Sam's chest. "You walked away, Sam. _You walked away_!" Finally, blood rushed to his cheeks, and he appeared as every bit angry as Sam felt. Dean, once again, urged for the argument to cease, but the two were too worked up now.

"You're the one who said 'Don't come back,' dad!" Sam told him, voice cracking under the strain of holding back… tears? Mortified, he realized that the old hurt of being shunned and banned by his own father had come back, bursting forth like a geyser. " _You're_ the one that closed that door— _not me_! You were just pissed off you couldn't _control me anymore_!" All the rage and hurt erupted in a shout so loud that even his own eardrums throbbed. His chest felt the ache, and so did his throat. Sam had never let loose like this before. Even the previous screaming match between himself and John had never escalated to the point of physical pain. He literally trembled in an attempt to reign in the sudden onslaught of emotions.

" _ENOUGH_!" The sudden shout caused Sam to flinch and sharply jerk away from his dad. He turned his eyes on his small girlfriend, only to flinch again under the fierce glare being directed his way. He hadn't been the only one startled by the vicious command. Dean and their dad had also met the infuriated stare of Tracee—not the woman, but the Slayer. " _What_ exactly is this argument accomplishing right _now_?! Shall we all stand about until the bloodthirsty vampires are upon us?!" She had, in the words of his brother, gone full on British. Thick in the accent, her words had spewed from her mouth sharp and fast. "Fine! Let's do this right now!"

"Now hold on a minute, girlie-!" John made the mistake of speaking.

" _Shut_. Up." If possible, her gaze hardened further, zeroing in on the oldest Winchester. "I'd had just about enough of your behavior towards your own sons! They are not strangers you keep at arms' length! They are not little boys, new to this world and its dangers! They are grown-ass men with experience in their own right. And yes, it might pale in comparison to your experience, but it still demands _respect_. They are not _just_ your little soldiers anymore. They have goals. They have motivations. They have _feelings_. They are not mindless underlings, hanging on your every whim. For an entire year, they have survived without your whims. They _know_ what they are doing. They are adults, and they _rightfully_ demand your respect."

"Trace…" Dean attempted to calm her down, moving towards her with his hands held up in surrender. She merely turned her angry expression on him, freezing him in place. Dean pressed his lips tightly together, clearly not wanting to be on the receiving end anymore. His hands shot up higher, emphasizing his submit. Tracee shifted her focus back on John, who, surprisingly, hadn't tried to cut through the tirade.

"But fine…! You've been doing this for a long time. You're the most experienced. You know this world and you know what's best. Fine, I get it," she continued. "You are under no obligation to give the respect they deserve. You raised them. You made them. Respect for your own creations—bit narcissistic, innit? I get how it wouldn't cross your mind to do that. But these creations are your _family_. Maybe respect isn't necessary, but _trust_ is!"

"You don't know what you're talking about," John muttered.

Tracee stepped forward, moving pass Dean. She stood in front of him, holding her stare by looking up. It didn't seem to matter how short she was in comparison. Like John, her presence made up for her stature. "I _don't_ …? Because I've been a silent observer up until now, and I'm pretty sure I, at least, have a clue," she said. "Since I've met you, you been nothing but vague to your sons. Unnecessarily taciturn when it comes to pretty much _everything_. I've witnessed the love between you three—the loyalty. There is no question when it comes to that. But I've also witnessed the dissention and the hurt. Those things stem from your lack of trust in them. So yes, they go against your orders! Running towards you even with dangerous creatures after them. Yes, they demand answers! Getting angry and distressed just to _know_! Because fumbling in the dark will get them killed—get all of us killed because we don't know what's at stake. We don't know the cost we must make for this gun! All because… You. Won't. _Tell_! Do you not see the hurt? Do you truly not see them _beg_ for their father's trust?"

"Trace, come on— _stop_ ," Dean's voice sounded like a plea. Her words had hit home, and even Dean had felt it. Sam let out a strained breath, realizing that his anger had evaporated. In its place was a strange combination of confusion and awareness. Had that been what the problem was? _Trust_? Had he gotten so upset because, on some level, he felt that the trust had been a one way street? "Can we just…?" Dean breathed heavily. "Can we just focus on the immediate problem?"

"This _is_ the immediate problem," Tracee stated. Finally, she stepped away from John. His dad dropped his gaze to the ground for a moment, and lowered his head. It spoke volumes. Not noticing, because she had turned her back, Tracee continued. "So here's what going to happen. One: Poppa-Winchester is going to tell what makes this gun so important—the _exact_ reason—and we are going to behave accordingly." She turned to face the three of them. "Two: Sam will calmly, _like an adult_ , explain his thoughts and get to the root of this animosity between father and son." Sam winced, hearing the dig in the second option. Tracee believed he had acted like a child. Hell, he had thrown a temper tantrum, hadn't he? "Or three, which is a personal favorite at the moment: I knock you _both_ out, Dean and I will handle the nest _by ourselves_ , and you both still have to do options one and two, anyway." Sam winced again, knowing that the third option had been a promise. "Choose wisely. I'm only giving you five seconds."

"Calm down, tank!" Dean wrapped his arms around Tracee, pinning her arms to her sides. Honestly, it looked as though she hadn't been planning on giving those five seconds. Her body had been tight and coiled, just itching to lash out no matter how quickly one of them spoke up. As strong as Tracee was, she still allowed Dean to pick her up and move her closer to the Impala so that she wouldn't cause bodily harm. "Now, we're all agitated that that didn't go as planned. Let's just regroup and decide what the hell we're going to do to save those people and get this Colt, okay?"

"I didn't…" John spoke up, gaining their attention. He looked away, unsettled. Their dad visibly swallowed. "I didn't know that's how… it looked—that I was holding back to the point of…" He pursed his lips and returned his gaze to Sam. Clenching his teeth, the youngest Winchester stared back. "You really wanna know about the Colt?" It was the closest thing to an apology that they were going to get. Sam, for the sake of knowledge, stifled a smartass comment and nodded his head. "It's just a story—a legend, really," he began. Dean tentatively released Tracee, and they all gathered around John to hear this legend. "At least, I thought it was. Never really believed it until I read Daniel's letter… Back in 1835, when Halley's Comet was overhead—the same night those men died at the Alamo—they say Samuel Colt made a gun. A special gun. He made it for a hunter—a man like us, but on horseback. Story goes, he made thirteen bullets and this hunter used the gun half a dozen times before he disappeared, the gun along with him. Somehow, Daniel got his hands on it. They say… They say this gun can kill anything."

"Kill anything like… supernatural anything?" Dean questioned.

"Like _The Demon_ ," Sam whispered, realization coming like a punch to the gut. No wonder their dad had been tense and edgy since coming back into their lives. Demons weren't hard to get rid of, not really, but they couldn't be killed. They could come back, wearing different skin, and continue their terror anew. This gun, though—this weapon—could be the only thing that could avenge the death of their mom. Jessica would have her justice, too. Oh God, the gun could very well be the key to ending it all. Their entire lives had been shaped by The Demon, and they would finally be able to break free from the hunter life.

"Yeah, _The Demon_ ," John confirmed with a nod of his head. "I've been so headstrong about this that I have been… neglecting other things. The gun is in our sight, and the last twenty three years will have been worth it. Ever since I've pick up The Demon's trail, I've been looking for a way to destroy that thing. We get this gun, we may have it." For a moment, no one spoke. In the silence that followed, the new information sunk in deep. This was more important than any other job that had ever had. The hurt, dissent, and anger would have to be put on the backburner, maybe permanently, now that the bigger picture had been revealed.

"Okay," Tracee broke the silence. "That's all we needed to know. So what do we do now?"

"We…" John sized her up, maybe seeing the small woman in a different light. "We've gotta find the nearest funeral home."

"The blood of a dead man, I take it?" she asked.

"Their poison," Dean nodded. "It'll make it a hellava lot easier, that's for sure." Their dad raised a brow, probably wondering how his eldest had known that information. However, he chose not to comment. "Then let's make a plan."

 

0-0

 

Sam was pacing, nervously moving back and forth in the small space of their motel room. Dean and Tracee had gone to obtain the vampire poison, leaving himself and John behind. The two had already been gone for about thirty minutes now. "It shouldn't be taking this long," he muttered, eyes darting to the window. Still no signs. "I should go help." Honestly, he wasn't worried about them. Not at all. Being alone with his dad—it was nerve-racking. He felt anxious and trapped. After that fight, Sam could only feel awkward. He _wanted_ to apologize, but his own stubbornness prevented that from happening. John's lack of paying attention had only contributed to the stifling silence.

"Dean's got it," John said from his position at the desk. Sam halted his pacing and looked towards his dad. The man hadn't looked up from whatever he had been reading. Pursing his lips, Sam went back to pacing, shoving his hands in the pockets of his jeans. "Sammy." The nickname from his dad made him stop again. He faced John, attempting to ignore the way his heart had jolted in his chest. His dad sighed softly, fiddling with the pen he held. "I don't think I ever told you this, but… the day you were born, you know what I did?" The question had been unexpected and had threw him off. Sam narrowed his eyes, cautiously, but shook his head to answer. "I put a hundred bucks into a savings account for you. I did the same thing for your brother. It was a college fund. And every month, I'd put another hundred dollars until…" He fingers flailed, just a bit. Still a touchy subject. Through the years, that was hardly ever brought up. With good reason. "Anyway… My point is, Sam, that… this is never the life I wanted for you."

"Then why'd you get so mad when I left?" Sam questioned, eyebrow jerking in surprise. This was the first time he had ever heard his dad say something like that. Hell, he had never even implied it. The blowout that happened before he went to college had been bad, and no other inkling of support had been shown.

"You gotta understand something," John murmured. For a second, he looked down and clenched his teeth. Then he shifted his gaze again, focused on his youngest son. The look in his eyes was unnervingly resigned. Sam had never seen his dad look that way before. "After your mother passed… all I saw was evil—everywhere. And all I cared about was keeping you boys alive. I wanted you… prepared. Ready. So somewhere along the line, I… _uh_ … I stopped being your father. And I became your drill sergeant. That girl—she was right. I raised you like my soldiers. Not like my sons." The confession was touching and it melted away the wariness. Made Sam drop his guard and actually move closer. He sat down opposite of his dad as he continued speaking. "So when you said you wanted to go away to school, all I could think about—my only thought was that you were gonna be alone… Vulnerable. As your drill sergeant, it never… occurred to me that you might want other things. Never occurred to me what you wanted at all. I just couldn't accept the fact that you and me—we're just different."

An unexpected chuckle came forth. Sam shook his head at the irony of it. His father and he weren't so different. Maybe that was the main reason they tended to be at odds. They were too much the same, it seemed. And with the devastating loss of loved ones… Sam clenched his jaw and shut his eyes. A stinging in his eyes, that he was all too familiar with, had him swallowing bile. John questioned his actions. Sam willed away oncoming sorrow as he thought about himself standing over Jessica's grave. While it was true that he had been done grieving her passing, thinking about her still hurt. He hadn't been able to save her just like his dad hadn't been able to save his mom. "We're not different, dad," Sam told him. "With what happened with mom and Jess… We probably have more in common than just about anyone."

His mouth twitched, clearly suppressing overwhelming emotion. He, too, had to push down thoughts of the mother of his children. John tried to smile in an attempt to put on a façade. Oh, father and son weren't different at all. "I guess you're right, son," he agreed. "And for what it's worth… I _do_ trust you—both of you… It's just… for so long, I've had to hold a lot of things inside. I've been so used to it. I didn't mean to-"

"Don't, dad. I understand," Sam interrupted. "Don't mind Tracee. She gets kinda mean when…" He swallowed hard, unwilling to finish the sentence. His girlfriend tended to be calm and reserved when it came to most things—most people. But the instant she recognized those she cared about were under attack—either physically or psychologically—she went on the offensive, and became a force of nature. She would return the hurt tenfold. "Anyway, she cares about us a lot. Sometimes, she'll go off on our behalf."

"Yeah…? How long have you known this girl?" John questioned.

"About three and a half months, I guess," Sam replied.

"And, _um_ … is she and Dean…?"

"What? No!" Sam scoffed, incredulous, and then laughed outright. The thought of those two together like that was absurd. "She's _my_ girlfriend!"

" _You_ and her?"

"That's right. It's been a short while, but yeah… We're together."

"Oh… I thought I saw…" John shook his head. "Never mind."

Sam furrowed his brow, about to ask him to explain what he thought he had seen, but the door opened. Dean and Tracee walked in, effectively halting any further conversation. " _Whoo_!" Dean exclaimed as Tracee shut the door. "Man, there's some heavy security to protect a bunch of dead guys." A huff from the tiny woman by his side was met with a slight shove. "And before the tiny tank says any differently—no, I did not drop the first jar."

"He did," Tracee supplied, crossing her arms. "Had to clean it up, too. Luckily, I had a second one."

" _Shush_!" Dean admonished. "You're the one who distracted me!" She merely grinned at him. Rolling his eyes, his brother began to dig in his pockets. Tracee took the time to glance Sam's way with a raised eyebrow. Without speaking, she wanted to know how things had gone on his end. Sam nodded his head and gave a tight smile to show things were amicable. Her shoulders sagged in relief just as Dean placed a glass jar filled with a dark red liquid on the desk. "So… Who's gonna be the bait?"

0-0

"You know, you should stick your butt out," Tracee mentioned. Dean sighed as he hovered over the engine to his car. Night had come, and the two of them had been out, near the vampire nest, for nearly ten minutes, pretending to be stranded. It had been decided that he and the tiny tank would be the bait. Of the three of them, Sam and his dad were the better shots when it came to crossbows. Tracee had volunteered to stay with him as back up. Two and two—it was a good plan. Tracee, at the side of the car, peered down at the engine as well. "What? I just remember how you said that you could make yours dance. Wiggling it about would probably lure them here faster."

"Then you stick _your_ butt out," Dean retorted.

"I would, but it'd distract your brother, too. He's an ass man, after all."

"Shut up!" Dean's grumble only caused Tracee to laugh loudly. "You take too much pleasure in telling me shit like that."

" _Shyeah_ I do," she snorted in amusement. Dean rolled his eyes and shook his head in exasperation. Still, it had been mostly for show. He didn't mind the comments that much. Besides, occasionally, he would make comments about Cassie, and her reactions were generally the same. Give and take. Or was it karma? Anyway, with the way things were going, Dean had warmed up to the thought of his brother and Tracee. Maybe, just maybe, their relationship wouldn't end in failure. And he didn't have to worry so much. Tracee suddenly stiffened, all signs of glee vanishing. "Get ready," she told him.

Dean nodded. Even before she had said it out loud, he knew that it was time, and it was down to business from here. Not long after, a sultry voice got his attention. "Car trouble…?" she purred, causing Dean to turn in order to face the vampire. She stalked forward, wearing a condescending smile. "Let me give you a lift. Take you back to my place."

" _Nah_ , I'll pass," he declined. "I usually draw the line at necrophilia."

"Usually…?"

"Shut up, Trace."

" _Ooh_ , they think they're funny," the vampire showed enjoyment right before she backhanded Dean across the face. He hadn't even seen her move. Suddenly, he was on the ground, shaking the stars from his eyes.

"I hope that was worth it," Tracee hissed as Dean used the front of his car to stand up again. "I'm not giving you a second chance."

"Let's not be hasty," the vampire directed her attention to Tracee. "There's plenty of me to go around. I like to make all sorts of friends. Isn't that right, Hank?" Another vampire stepped into view, larger and more imposing than the female. He wore a grin as well. The way his eyes looked Tracee up and down caused Dean to glare at the newcomer. The slimy bastard had the nerve to lick his lips.

"Hey! Don't look at her!" Dean found himself shouting.

"Possessive, aren't we?" the female vampire chuckled. She moved again, quickly grabbing his cheeks with one hand. Her manicured nails dug into his skin. Dean uselessly grabbed her wrist to push her away, but she was stronger. She barely flinched. Without effort, she lifted him off the ground. Dean could do nothing but hang in her grip. "Don't worry. Hank will be very… _gentle_. He likes making friends, too." The male vampire took a step in Tracee's direction, and he heard the tiny tank draw in a breath. _Hell_ no.

"You take another step towards her, I'm gonna kill you. And I'm gonna enjoy it," Dean threatened. The male vampire smiled cruelly at him, and then took two steps. Just to be funny. "Good. You just made your last mistake."

" _Ugh_!" As if on cue, the male vampire let out a pained groan. An arrow protruded from his chest. He crumbled to his knees almost immediately. The vampire who held him sharply turned, but she took an arrow to the chest as well. She released him, but really only looked mildly inconvenienced. Annoyed, she turned, turning her back on Dean, just as Sam and John revealed themselves.

"Barely even stings," she told them.

"Give it time, sweetheart," John approached her, resting his crossbow on top of his shoulder. Sam stood by the other vampire, ready to swing. Dean rubbed his jaw, knowing that bruise would form. "That arrow's soaked in dead man's blood. It's like poison to you, isn't it?" The female vampire couldn't even give a retort because her legs gave him, leaving her to collapse in Tracee's arms. "Load her up," he instructed, pulling out his machete. "I'll take care of this one."

" _Nah_ , dad, I've got this one," Dean stated. He walked over to his brother, plucking the machete from him. Sam gave him a pinched look, but hadn't protested the transfer of the weapon. "Any last words?" he asked as Tracee walked by, carrying the newly caught bait. The vampire stared up at him, frowning now. Dean mockingly grinned back. "No? _Good_." He raised the machete high before bringing it down in a swinging motion. No remorse, he lopped off the vampire's head.

Without another word, he handed the blood drenched machete back to his brother.

Minutes later, the Winchesters, plus Tracee, had gathered around a fire. The vampire was tied to a tree, completely out of it thanks to the tainted blood in her veins. The fire, laced with some weird concoction that John had cooked up smelled nasty, but it was enough to cover the scent of the hostage as well as theirs. "How long until this stuff wears off?" Tracee asked.

"The poison…? Not long. If we're quick, we won't have to worry," John answered.

"I meant the scent," she said. "How long until we're detectable again if we use the ashes?" His dad merely repeated his answer, same tone and everything. Tracee huffed in response and rolled her eyes. "Delightful," she muttered sarcastically. "Once we're done getting those people out, where's the rendezvous point?"

"There's no rendezvous point," John stated. Dean furrowed his brow, but it was Sam that voiced his confusion. "I want you outta the area as quick as you can."

"There's only one of you," Tracee put in.

"You can't take care of them by yourself, dad," Dean agreed.

"I'll have her, and the Colt," he replied.

"But _after_ —we're gonna meet up, right?" Sam questioned. "Use the gun _together_ , right?" The three waited in silence for John's answer, but the man only looked away, unwilling to speak. Sam scoffed, shaking his head. "You're still gonna leave again. You still want to go after The Demon by yourself." He sighed out. "You know, for just _one moment_ , I thought you understood. For one moment, I thought you trusted us."

"It's not that."

"Then what is it, dad?! We're not children-!"

"You're _my_ children!" John blurted. "It's not about trust or respect." His eyes glanced at Tracee. She narrowed her eyes and crossed her arms. "It's about being safe. I just…" He sucked in a deep breath. "I just want you safe."

"Dad, all due respect, but _uh_ … that's a bunch of crap," Dean remarked. The opinion caused three pairs of eyes to widen. He shifted uncomfortably under the attention. It had been out of character for him. They all knew it. Honestly, he was surprise the words managed to form. This whole time, he had been holding back, playing the voice of reason, and trying to stop confrontations. But… What Tracee had said before—it had been nagging him. _Do you truly not see them_ beg _for their father's trust?_ He hadn't realized until that question that he had been doing just that. Since the first encounter with the _Shtriga_ , in fact. Dean had been busting his ass, trying to make up for it, but nothing he had done had been good enough—not to win back that trust. Now, when it came down to it, his dad didn't trust them enough to watch his back. And even if that wasn't the case… it sure as hell felt like it.

"Excuse me…?" John finally voiced his astonishment. Admittedly, Dean almost backed down. Since he had been a child, he had always tried to stay neutral, and when he couldn't, he had normally just agreed with his dad. But… This time, he couldn't. He wouldn't.

"You _know_ what Sammy and I have been hunting. Hell, _you_ sent us on a few of those hunting trips yourself," he reasoned. "You can't be _that_ worried about keeping us safe. After you've been training us our entire lives in preparation, so I just can't think of any other reason you'd want us out of the big fight… except that you don't trust us."

"No, that's wrong. This is different. This demon is different—worse than anything any of us have ever encountered," John explained. "I don't expect to come out of this fight in one piece. Your mother's death…" He got a little choked up, mentioning her. A surge of guilt filled him. He hadn't meant to… "It almost killed me," John managed to get out. He shook his head. "I can't watch my children die, too. I won't."

"So your plan is go kamikaze style? _Nah_ , that's a stupid plan," Dean stated.

"Dean!"

He ignored the scolding tone. "It _is_!" he stressed. "Somebody once said to me that separation isn't an option for dangerous situations, and you what? She's right. We're _better_ together. We're stronger together, dad! We can watch your back! We can take out this demon together—all of us!" John dropped his gaze again, and for the longest moment, he didn't speak.

"We're running outta time," he finally said. Dean looked away, disappointed by the reaction. Like this brother, for one moment, he had thought their dad could change his mind. But in the end, a person's nature couldn't be so easily changed. "You do your job, and you get outta the area. That's an order."

Without waiting for a response, John headed over to the female vampire and began untying her from the tree. Dean curled his fingers into fists and nearly stomped over to the Impala. Sam and Tracee followed him. Once inside, he gripped the steering wheel. His dad's stubbornness was going to get him killed. _Bloody uneducated fools_ , he couldn't help but to remember Tracee's father's words. It was a remark that Dean had come to know all too well after a week of it in Ashland. John Winchester was one of the best hunters around—if not _the_ best—but the best of fools was still just a fool. It was going to be a mistake for his dad not to trust this time around.

Dean shut his eyes, listening to Sam and Tracee climb in and shut their respective doors. His brother had screamed and shouted, and that hadn't worked. He, himself, after years of being obedient and never questioning, had tried to speak up. That hadn't worked. Words had not worked. So. There was only one viable option left. In the back, Tracee cleared her throat. "Dean…?"

"Yeah…?" he responded, opening his eyes.

"We _are_ going to thwart that inane plan, aren't we?"

"Sammy…?" Dean looked towards his brother just to make sure they were all on the same page. Sam blinked once, eyebrows raised. Clearly still surprised. Dean frowned, silently apologizing for all the times he played a passive part in the previous confrontations. Even though he, himself, had thought the same things as his younger brother. Sam blinked again, and then his expression shifted into one of resolute. He nodded his head in agreement. "Then I guess we're thwarting that plan," Dean answered. He heard Tracee chuckle as he started up the engine.

"There's my unruly Winchesters," she drawled affectionately. Sam let out a laugh at that, cheeks taking on a pink tint. "Oh, how I've missed you both."

" _Aah_ , shut up, Trace," he told her, grinning all the while.

 

0-0

 

It was a new feeling. If she were perfectly honest, this was the first time in her entire life—that she could remember—having pride in someone else. Growing up, Tracee hadn't had close relationships. The opportunity for pride in someone other than herself hadn't really presented itself. Not even the six years she had with Michael. Maybe it was the biased way she viewed him now, but she couldn't recall a time where she had swelled with pride because of something he had done. Maybe it had been the selfish immaturity all teenagers with through. Whatever the case, the pride she had in both Winchester brothers felt amazing.

Despite the… tension of this particular case, she hadn't been able to suppress the smile as she watched them work. Dean had killed the single vampire that had been left behind. Sam had worked to free the people who had been taken. Yes. All that had been well and good, but it had been the rush to get to their father—even after John had been a complete twat—that had her mind had recognized the feeling as pride. Even the best of people would have left a man like that high and dry, either out of fear or loyalty. Dean and Sam still had the unyielding loyalty going on, but they had minds of their own. Seeing the three interact so far had just been… shit. She hadn't particularly liked the interactions. The relationship between the three just seemed so unhealthy.

Then again, her relationship with her own father was quite different. She had never known anything other than the loving and doting man that was her father and dad. On some level, she expected all parents to treat their children in similar ways. John Winchester wasn't like that to his boys, and still they loved him. Still they—two soldiers that had known nothing but the next command—would disobey him in order to save him. It was admirable, really. So if Poppa-Winchester refused to see the light after this, Tracee would be forced to intervene yet again. _It wasn't her place_ , be damned.

Resolute in her decision, Tracee led the two through winding trees in search of the large concentration of vampire presence. Since she had gotten a feel of them earlier that day, it wasn't too difficult to pinpoint their current location. Especially since they had halted their movements. Up ahead, there were lights to vehicles. They were close now. Just before the cover of trees ended, she stopped. Dean and Sam stopped, too. From their vantage point, they could see John, holding the female vampire while the other vampires stood opposite of him. Five vampires in total. The five wouldn't be able to sense them because of the ashes their clothes were coated in. Tracee had to remember to take, at least, two showers after this was done.

Suddenly, the vampire hostage jerked free and knocked John away. He slammed into the front of his truck while the female vampire backed into the safety of her numbers. "Dean…!" Tracee glanced at him, only to see that he was already looking through the scope of his crossbow. She looked back at the confrontation just in time to see a male vampire knock John into the door of his truck, shattering the glass upon impact. Unmoving, John did nothing to stop the advance of the vampire.

Immediately, Tracee and Sam rushed forward as the sound of an arrow flying reached her ears. She burst through the cover of trees just as a female vampire with a silly hat fell to her knees, arrow protruding from her chest. The vampire who had knocked John out sharply turned towards her, fist coming fast. Tracee swiftly moved her head to the right, effectively dodging the attack. Her left hand shot up, fingers wrapping around the extended appendage of her enemy. She squeezed hard and snapped his wrist. Looking horrified, the vampire howled in pain. Without warning, she rammed her right fist into his face. A satisfying crunch of his nose signified that she had broken bone. He slammed into the hood of John's car.

Wasting no time, Tracee jumped up, feet planting on either side of the vampire. She crouched down, hand gripping his throat. He choked, despite not needing to breathe. He stared up at her, uninjured hand moving to pry her fingers from his airway. The attempt only made her squeeze harder. "You…!" he rasped. "What are you?! You're not a hunter! You're-!" Without remorse, she bashed the back of his head against the hood of the vehicle.

"I'm Tracee," she told him, and then pulled the stake from her back pocket. She raised it high, sharp end down. " _The_ _Vampire Slayer_." He appeared right terrified by the title, eyes wide and mouth open. Not to mention his hand immediately stopped trying to push her away. Too bad it was too late. No hesitation, Tracee stabbed the male vampire through the chest, straight to his un-beating heart. "Dead. Center." With a sharp tug, she pulled her stake out just as the body crumbled to dust.

It felt so natural. Not because she had seen it countless times in her dreams because of her predecessors, but also because she had been conditioned for it. By her father—her Watcher—she had been honed to kill. Even if she hadn't realized it. " _ **LUTHER**_ …!" The scream of a vampire caused Tracee to shift her gaze behind her. She realized that the other two vampires had been taken care of by way of beheading, courtesy of the Winchester brothers, she assumed. There were still two other vampires—both female. The one that had screamed, she believed, lunged forward, looking murderous.

Her body tensed in preparation to retaliate once the female vampire came within range. However, before she could, the crack of a gun going off echoed in the night. The female vampire stopped in her tracks, bleeding from a hole in her forehead. Eyes wide, she twitched, fingers reaching up, but not quite making it to the bullet hole. Tracee watched, blinking in surprise. She could hear _whispers_. Too low to make it out, but there was definitely whispers. A flash of light, seemingly coming from within the vampire, revealed her skeleton. Gagging, she fell to her knees. Another flash occurred, and then she slumped over, dead. No dust. No beheading. Just _dead_.

Tracee turned to see John, lowering his arm, the _Colt_ —definitely a supernatural weapon—still in his grip. The whispering had stopped. The unnatural wind had ceased as well. A startled cry from the last remaining vampire did not divert her attention from the man that had just killed a vampire with a gun. Perhaps she shouldn't have left the remaining vampire go, but she couldn't take her eyes off the hunter. For the first time, she believed John wasn't an average hunter. He… could have been as much of a boogeyman to the supernatural as Slayers were.

The screech of tires against the pavement shifted her attention to the rapidly fading car. Tracee scowled as the taillights moved further and further away. She hopped off the hood of the truck and walked over the corpse. Nudging it a bit with her foot, she noticed how stiff it had become. Already…? Like the body had been dead for hours and not mere seconds. Her eyes shifted back to John, who now wore a smug smile. "Holy shit…" she murmured.

"You ignored a direct order," John stated, smile not leaving his face.

"Yes, sir," Sam nodded.

"But we saved your ass," Dean mentioned.

"… You're right," John confessed. Admittedly, she was surprised by his candor. "It scares the hell out of me. You two are all I've got… But I guess we are stronger as a family. So… we go after this damn thing… together." Relief flooded her system so much that it startled her a bit. "You, too, girlie. You're more skilled than I thought. We'll need all the help we can get." Ignoring the sensation for now, she smiled demurely at the older Winchester. She hadn't expected a compliment. Probably never going to happen again, so it was best to take it at face value for now.

"Yes, sir," she spoke in near sync with Dean and Sam.

0-0


	18. War I

Tracee opened her eyes. A frown tugged at her lips as she noticed the darkness of the motel room. The sun hadn't begun its rise yet. Sleep hadn't come easy. Despite how comfortable she had been lying on the bed with Sam, sleep hadn't come at all, in fact. She sighed inaudibly as to not wake the others in the room. She could hear Sam's steady breathing, as well as Dean's light snoring. John had gotten a separate room again, so who knew what he was up to at the moment. Eyes adjusting to the dark, Tracee slowly moved into a sitting position. Sam remained deep in slumber, unaware of her movement. She wished she could sleep as easily. But her brain wouldn't stop thinking about that gun.

_The Colt_. Its existence hadn't made sense to her. If she hadn't seen what it could do, she would have been hard pressed to believe that the gun could actually kill a supernatural being. In all of her readings, nothing had alluded to such a weapon ending a supernatural life. Enchanted daggers, magical swords and axes, mystical medieval weapons—yes, they were quite common. Well, _rare_ , but not unheard of. A weapon so modern, like a gun, shouldn't have any supernatural capabilities. If it did, why hadn't more been made? It wouldn't make sense just to make _one_ , especially if the gun had worked as intended. John had said that Samuel Colt had made the weapon. A _gunsmith_ had made just one powerful weapon? Doubtful. Unless something _stopped_ him from making more. What's more, no one else had attempted to imitate the creation. _Why_?

The more she thought about it, the more anxious she had become. Hence, the lack of sleep. Tracee turned her gaze to the sleeping face of Sam Winchester. He slept on his side, hand fisting the hem of her shirt. He, and his family, seemed completely unconcerned, only thinking of a possible cause, and not the effect. They definitely weren't thinking about possible origins. It would appear that she would have to take some initiative. But where would she find information on something no one knew about? With the three Winchesters seeing through tunnel vision, they probably wouldn't be much help in her want of knowledge. Hell, she might not even have the time to research herself. She had a strange sense that things were going to go hella fast in the coming days, especially with three half-cocked Winchesters.

She needed help.

With another sigh, Tracee slipped out of bed. She ignored the slight groan from Sam as she moved around the room in search pants and shoes. Her rustling must have woken him because when she turned around, in the midst of sliding up her yoga pants, she found sleepy eyes staring back at her. "Tracee…?" Sam whispered. "What's going on? Where are you going?" Smiling a bit, Tracee walked back over to the bed. She lowered her upper body and lifted her hand to slide her fingers in his hair. Sam hummed lightly and shut his eyes, enjoying the touch. His sleepy expression was so adorable. Her lips pressed against his forehead because she couldn't help herself.

"Just going to the roof," she told him. "I'm going to do a bit of the ritual."

"It's the middle of the night," Sam replied.

"Don't worry. I'll just take an hour at most." She gave another light kiss, to his lips, and then patted his cheek. "Go back to sleep, Samuel. I'll be back before you wake up again." Drowsy, he could only nod in agreement with a sloppy smile on his face. Holding back a chuckle, Tracee watched him lay back down, hugging her pillow tightly in his arms. Once he settled back into slumber, she turned away and headed for the front door. She slipped on her socks and her running shoes, dark blue _Champions_ —she had swapped out her Chucks for them in Ashland—and made a grab for her jacket.

Even with the light from the moon, it was still pretty dark out. She quietly shut the motel room's door, and then put on her jacket. It was a bit chilly out, but for now, she would ignore it. Her hands slipped into her pockets, feeling her cell phone and iPod. Maybe she would end up dancing, but first… Tracee pulled out her cell phone as she looked around the area. It was of the morning hours, but all was quiet and dark like it was the dead of night. Deeming it safe enough, she walked around until she spotted a dumpster next to the building. She made a running jump for the top of it, and then propelled herself onto the roof. She landed in a crouch, but quickly stood to her full height.

Peering over the edge, she noticed the indention her feet had made in the top of the dumpster. She really had to work on her landings. Now that she thought about it, hadn't John's truck been damaged, too? The man hadn't said anything about it, though. Putting it at the back of her mind, Tracee flipped open her phone and dialed the memorized number. The line rang and rang. Scowling, Tracee listened to the voicemail about half way before hanging up and dialing again. " _Do you know what_ time _it is_?!" She had gotten an earful the second time around. As always, she couldn't get a simple greeting from her best friend. " _Oh my_ God _! Tracee! It's only a little after 4 in the morning! What is_ wrong _with you_!? _I have work_ _in a few hours_!"

"Hello to you, too, Cassie," Tracee replied, unrepentant. "Sorry to bother you so early."

" _You don't sound sorry_." Her best friend, and fellow Slayer, yawned loudly. " _Why are you calling right now? Is something wrong? Is… Is Dean okay_?" Tracee's eyebrow jumped in surprise. Cassie had never explicitly asked about the older Winchester brother. Sure, the man had been mentioned in passing in their conversations, but nothing more. Nothing about his wellbeing. Not until now.

"He's fine," she told her. A barely audible sigh entered her ear. Tracee would definitely asked about that later. "But I am worried," she admitted. "Recently, we've been traveling with Poppa-Winchester. After a year, he has suddenly reappeared in front of them."

" _That sounds_ … _good_?"

"Sure," Tracee replied with a shrug. She wouldn't mention how irritating the older Winchester could be. That wasn't important at the moment. "Thing is, he's been looking for a special weapon to kill a demon. He found it in the form of a colt revolver."

" _Guns cannot kill demons_ ," Cassie immediately refuted. " _They can't_ kill _anything supernatural. For some reason, modern weapons don't work on them. Not fatally_."

"My sentiments exactly," Tracee agreed. "But we wouldn't be having this conversation if I hadn't seen it with my own eyes. Poppa-Winchester killed a vampire right in front of me with a gun. No dust, fire, or beheading. Just a bullet to the head. This gun's real, and the legend goes that it can kill _anything_." She then went on to retell what John had told her about the gun. Cassie listened without interrupting once. "The reason I'm so… anxious about this gun is because the so called legend only focuses on 'kill anything,' and not what happens afterwards. I want to know more about this gun, why it's seemingly the only one in existence, and if there are any negative consequences of using it. Before either Samuel or Dean tries to use it." She sighed heavily. Perhaps she should be more concerned about John, since the man had already used it, but if there were consequences to be had, she could do nothing to stop it now. "I need your help, Cassie."

" _Why me_ …?"

"Well, besides the fact that the Madam would kill me for calling this early-"

" _You little_ -"

"-you are a journalist—naturally gifted with finding out the truth of things," Tracee continued over the heated response. "You like research just as much—if not more—so I'm trusting you with this. In my current position, I don't think I'll have the time to do it myself. Cassie, let me rely on you for a little while." For several moments, her friend did not speak. Tracee furrowed her brow, wondering if she had been hung up on. "Cassie…?"

" _Y-Yeah, I'm here. Um_ … _Okay, I'll do it_ ," she stated. " _I'm just a little… freaked out that you're so earnestly asking something from me_."

" _Haah_ … Well, this is too important to ask in a flippant way."

" _Not what I meant_ ," Cassie surely rolled her eyes. " _But yeah, I'll do it. Give me something to start with_."

"That's the thing… This gun doesn't have a name. They've just been calling it 'The Colt,' so I've no idea on how to start," Tracee said. "I'm sure you'll figure it out, though."

" _I'm a journalist—it's what I do_ ," Cassie replied. " _I'll get started as soon as I can_."

"Thanks, girl… Call me as soon as you have something."

Her fellow Slayer gave an affirmative, and then disconnected the call. Tracee sighed heavily as she snapped her phone shut. She really hoped Cassie found something _before_ they all encountered a situation where the gun had to be used. Call her paranoid, but if something seemed too good to be true, it generally was. She couldn't blame the Winchesters for looking at this gun as the answer to their biggest problem. She could understand their tunnel vision. Even Sam, methodical as he was, could not see the bigger picture. And there was a bigger picture. Had to be. The motivations behind the creation of the Colt. The motivations of an elusive demon that had started this entire thing in the first place. Not just with Sam, but with Max as well. Not to mention the four others she had dreamt about. She wanted—needed—to know.

No more testing the waters. She was already in too deep.

 

0-0

 

Sam bobbed his knee as leaned against the sink's counter, waiting for his dad to finish putting up everything he found pertaining to The Demon. John had been mostly silent in his work. Ever since he had barged in, as soon as the morning sun had come, and had barely spoken a word. He and Dean had already taken their turns in the shower. Tracee was in the bathroom now, getting ready. Dean had chosen to sit on his bed, flipping through a magazine. His brother must have been hungry because it looked like a food magazine. John suddenly halted, dropping his arms with a heavy sigh.

"Does… Does she have to do that right now?" he questioned, turning around to face them. He gestured vaguely in the bathroom's general direction. The door was shut, but Tracee's voice cut through, muffled but clear. Along with the snapping of her fingers.

"… To the window…! To the wall! To the wall! Till sweat drop down my balls! Till all these bitches crawl…!"

Oh… _That_. Tracee had a habit of rapping while she got ready for the day. Honestly, her music preference did not match her normal image, but she hadn't seemed to care. She loved rapping. No matter how bad she was at it. Now that he thought about it, that's probably something she picked up from her real dad. Victor Noland despised that certain genre of music, so he couldn't have been her influence. But he was a classical type of guy, anyway. This was the first time their dad had heard. Those lyrics weren't the best for this situation, so it wasn't hard to understand that John had become uncomfortable. Definitely picked it up from her real dad.

"It's all a part of her routine, dad," Dean stated, not looking away from the magazine in his hand. "I've learned to tune it out." The bathroom door suddenly slammed open, revealing the petite woman, dressed and ready. Sam perked up at the sight of her. She had opted not to straighten her hair, and instead had braided it into two pigtails, which hung down her chest. It was the first time since Ashland that he had seen her hair like that. He smiled at the thought of seeing her halo of curls once she took the braids down. "Well, if it isn't _Lil Jon_ himself! You finished making my ears bleed already?" Dean greeted her with a grin.

"Do I make fun of your falsetto voice, Clay Aiken?" she retorted as she yanked her earphones out and began wrapping the cord around her iPod. Dean gave her a look. Tracee snorted. "You _wish_ you could sound like Clay Aiken."

"And _you_ wish you could actually rap."

Tracee gasped in a dramatic fashion, clutching at her chest as though Dean had physically wounded her heart. But then she stuck out her tongue, slipping her iPod into the front pocket of her jeans. Dean returned the motion, but Tracee had already shifted her gaze to Sam. She smiled and winked at him, and he flushed in response. That pretty mouth of hers—he could stare at her smile all day. John cleared his throat, forcing the three to pay attention. The man, apparently finished tacking things on the wall, was now sitting down at the desk. He appeared a bit exasperated by the exchange.

"So, this is it," he began, gesturing behind him. "This is everything I know." Dean tossed the magazine on the bed before moving to stand. Tracee walked towards the wall, eyes darting around at the new information in front of her. John glanced at her briefly before focusing on his two sons. "Look—our whole lives we've been searching for this demon, right? Not a trace, just nothing, until about a year ago… For the first time, I picked up a trail."

"That's when you took off," Dean murmured.

"Yeah. That's right. The demon must have come out of hiding or hibernation," John said.

"Alright, so what's this trail you found?"

"It starts in Arizona, then New Jersey, California—houses burned down to the ground," John replied. Sam shifted, beginning to feel uncomfortable with this subject. Unbidden, thoughts of his own residence burning formed in his mind. "It's going after families, just like it went after us. Families with infants—six months old infants."

"I… I was six months old that night?" Sam questioned. His dad nodded in head in confirmation. Again, he shifted uncomfortably. "So… basically, this demon is going after these kids for some reason… the same way it came for _me_?" John averted his eyes and didn't respond, which made him feel guiltier. On some level, his dad might have resented that fact. "So mom's death, Jessica—it's all 'cause of me?"

"We don't know that, Sam," Dean said.

"Oh, really? Because I'd say we're pretty damn sure, Dean!" he retorted, aggressively. Sam knew why he was getting heated. The thought of everything being his fault—just for _existing_ —was overwhelming. If he had never met Jessica… If he had never been born… No one would have suffered and died. A familiar stinging hit his eyes and he clenched his jaw in an effort to ward away the twisted feeling in his gut. Dean opened his mouth, probably to reassure him, but Tracee's voice halted him.

"Don't," she said. Sam looked at her. She hadn't turned her eyes away from the wall of newspaper clippings and images. With her hands clasped behind her back, she continued speaking. "Stop trying to shield your brother, Dean. You know it won't work." Dean huffed lightly, crossing his arms, but didn't attempt to reassure him again. "And Sam…" He internally flinched. He had begun to suspect that she said his nickname only when she was irritated with him. "Stop trying to shoulder this burden by yourself." Tracee turned, facing him with narrowed eyes. "You're not the only one this has happened to, so don't you dare." Sam clenched his jaw again, eyes downcast. "Now, from what I've gathered here, Poppa-Winchester, it seems there are symptoms to this demon's arrival in these different places, correct?"

John stood up and joined her at the wall. "Yes," he answered. "It took me awhile to see a pattern, but in the days leading up to these fires, signs crop up in an area. Cattle deaths, temperature fluctuations, electrical storms." He pointed to various articles, and Tracee followed along, nodding her head. "And… then I went back and checked… These things happened in Lawrence… the week before your mother died. And in Palo Alto… before Jessica." At the mention of his late girlfriend, Sam had difficulty swallowing.

"How about Michigan?" Tracee asked. "I don't see anything about Michigan."

"Michigan? What's so important about Michigan?" John asked.

" _Uh_ …" For the first time, Tracee appeared uneasy. Sam and Dean both tensed as well. "We… met someone in Michigan that has a similar tragedy." Max Miller. With everything that had happened since, Sam had almost forgotten about him. A man his own age, with psychic abilities, had gone through the same thing. Mothers dying in their children's nurseries. "He told us that his father witnessed his mother pinned to the ceiling. A fire in the nursery. If things truly are the same, then he must have been six months as well."

"You _met_ someone?" John repeated. He rubbed his jaw and shook his head. "How'd you even find them?" Tracee reached up, scratching at her neck. Sam understood her hesitance to speak on the subject. It wasn't her secret to tell. Breathing in deeply, Sam prepared himself to tell his dad about the psychic connection between himself and Max Miller. As he told the story, John only stared back at him in disbelief. "You have _visions_?"

"Yeah, they started off with nightmares," Dean mentioned. "Then he started having them while he was awake. Being near this kid, Max, made his powers stronger, we think. Since the demon came for Max, we're thinking anything to do with the demon, causes him to have them." Except the ones with Tracee, Sam finished in thought. He still believed that since the set of visions had been so different from the rest that the demon had nothing to do with those. He had yet to figure out why, though, so he was reluctant to admit it out loud for now. "Max and Sammy have these psychic abilities, so maybe that's why they were targeted."

"Hold on," John said, blinking rapidly as he tried to process the new information. "When exactly were you going to tell me about this?" Sam could not believe his dad's audacity, and neither could Tracee, judging from the way her eyebrows jumped. She looked at him like she couldn't believe his nerve. John did not see the look because he was too busy nearly glaring him.

"We didn't know what it meant at the time—not really. Besides, this all happened months ago," Dean said. "He hasn't happened since. Haven't exactly been thinking about it." Sam turned towards his brother, wondering why he had lied. The last vision had come about two weeks ago—the one of the past. Then again, they were only talking about the ones having to do with the demon. Maybe Dean's reasoning matched his own.

"Alright, something like this starts happening to your brother, you pick up the phone and call me!" His nerve apparently knew no bounds because he had clearly become indignant at not knowing that tidbit of information. Sam scoffed at the irony. Tracee opened her mouth, about to let John have it for his careless command, but the sharp clap of her nickname came from Dean's mouth. She immediately pressed her lips together, and then stomped away from John as though the proximity would prevent her from physically striking their dad.

"Call you? Are you _kidding_ me?" Dean continued once Tracee had stood by Sam's side. She sought his hand, entwining her fingers with his as his brother stepped closer to the desk, appearing aggravated. "Dad, I called you from Lawrence after I found out, all right? Sam called you when I was _dying_." Tracee grip on his hand increased. Sam glanced at her, knowing how upset she was. Plus, she never liked hearing the story of how his brother had come so close to death. Literally. The very thought made his own throat constrict. "Getting you on the phone—I've gotta better chance at winning the fucking lottery!"

John dipped his chin, showing regret. "You're right…" he muttered. "Although, I'm not real crazy about this new tone of yours, you're right. I'm sorry." Dean continued to stare their dad down, still tense, still annoyed. "Look, I've never considered what connects these families, but maybe that's what it is—these abilities could be the reason, but we don't know for sure. I don't have all the answers, but I do know the signs of this demon's arrival are happening again. And I know we can end it for good—stop this from happening to any other family."

"Where?" Sam questioned, squeezing Tracee's hand back. They could end it. Very soon. "Where are the signs happening now?"

"Salvation, Iowa," John replied.

"Then let's go to Iowa," Dean said. "And get it done."

 

0-0

 

This particular job, as expected, was turning out to be a hell of a ride. And not the good kind. Just outside of Salvation, their dad had told them that a family friend had died, sulfur left behind, indicating that a demon had done it. In response, John had dished out orders, a clear sign of scrambling to get ahead of whatever plan had gone into effect on the demon front. Those orders of finding six month old infants had proven to be worthless in the end. As many names as they had compiled, Sam's latest vision had trumped them all. _Another_ vision. It must have been some type of jinx. While they had separated to find these names, Sam had narrowed down the list to a family of three because his vision had led him to the home of a six month old baby by the name of Rose Holt.

Dean held back a sigh as he listened to his brother explain the happenings that he had seen in the painful vision. That was another thing. The last vision Sam had had had been painless and a dream of the past. Dean was beginning to understand that the painful visions had to do with this demon while the ones involving Tracee in some way were painless. After spending a week 'ascending,' Dean had discovered the reason behind it. The _sources_ of the visions were different. Sam had a natural affinity to premonitions. He could get these visions from a variety of sources because of that. Thing was The Demon's presence was a corrupting source, which made it hurt. It was like his brother's brain was a car that had been given the wrong fuel—or not as sufficient fuel. Either way, Sam was taking in these different fuels—good and bad—and Dean was worried that eventually… his brother's engine would give out. He had to get rid of the corrupting source, and soon.

This demon could _not_ get any older.

But they still had to find the damned thing, so… for now, all he could do was wait for the pieces to fall together. With Tracee backing him up, Dean was sure that they would both figure out the bigger picture and terminate the problem. The tiny tank, opened as she was towards super abilities, shared his concerns with the painful visions. Together, they could and would find out the why and stop it from happening again. He was confident in that. He just needed to be patience, that's all.

For now, they were all gathered in a motel room, he and his dad sitting on separate beds while Sam and Tracee sat at the table. His brother winced as he rubbed his head. "When I met the mom, she told me Rosie's birthday is today, so… more than likely, the demon will come for her _tonight_. Not to mention, she commented that Rosie seemed like she could read minds… The psychic theory is starting to look good," Sam said. Tracee pushed a glass of water across the table to him. He smiled at her, grateful, and gulped the liquid down. Once done, he sighed heavily. "This is our chance to stop-" His cell phone rang, cutting of whatever else he had been about to say. Clearing his throat, Sam reached across the table and held the device to his ear. Who could be calling him? Since they had started this road trip, his brother hadn't gotten any calls that wasn't from himself or Tracee. "Hello…?" Maybe it was a college buddy? Sam knitted his brow together. "Who is this?" Clearly not a college buddy then. Dean watched the color drain from his brother's face. "Meg…!"

At the mention of the name, Dean moved to stand, along with John. Crap. He should have seen this coming. Of course. Can't face demons and his dad involved unless Meg was involved, too. She had attempted to capture and kill them before. Dean should have expected her to do it again. Tracee narrowed her eyes and frowned, tapping Sam on his shoulder. Understanding her, his brother nodded and pulled the phone from his ear. He then placed it on speaker phone so that all of them could hear. " _Bravo, Sammy—a real genius you are_ ," Meg's condescending voice came out loud and clear. " _Let me speak to your dad_."

"… My dad," Sam repeated, glancing at John. "I don't know where my dad is."

" _It's time for the grown-ups to talk, Sam_ ," Meg retorted, irritation seeping into her voice. " _Let me speak to him_ now." Dean narrowed his eyes. How the hell did she know they were together? It had barely been a week. Sam looked towards John, and the man nodded his head. With a sigh, Sam placed the cell phone on the table. John walked forward, stating his name. " _Howdy, John. I'm Meg. I'm a friend of your boys_." Her tone was pleasant enough, but there was an underlying malice that Dean sensed. Must have had something to do with her being a demon. Couldn't quite get the fake polite tone down. " _I'm also the one that watched Jim Murphy choke on his own blood_." John clenched his jaw, something Sam had picked up from him, and curl his hands into fists. " _Still there, John boy_?"

"I'm here," he replied, keeping his voice leveled.

" _Well, that was yesterday_ ," Meg stated. " _Today, I'm in Lincoln… visiting another old friend of yours. He wants to say hi_."

" _John! Whatever they do, don't give_ -!"

"Caleb!" John sounded alarmed. Dean's head snapped up. Double crap. Another family friend at the mercy of a demon. This was not good. "Caleb…!" John tried again, but only silence greeted him. "Now you listen to me. He's got nothing to do with anything. You let him go."

" _We know you have_ The Colt _, John_ ," Meg continued, ignoring the demand. Triple crap. Not only had she known that they were all traveling together again, but she also knew about the weapon that could kill anything. How the hell-? That vampire. The one that got away because they had all stood there like, watching a vampire drop dead from a bullet. She must have gone blabbering to anything that would listen. _Crap_. John denied the accusation, but not as smooth as he could have. " _Oh… Okay_ ," Meg simpered. " _Then listen to this_." To his horror, Dean heard the tale-tell sound of a blade slicing through flesh. He had heard it enough in his life to recognize it immediately, followed by the gagging.

"Caleb…? Caleb!" John seemed to be at a loss of words as though not fully understanding what he had just heard.

" _You hear that? That's the sound of your friend dying_ ," Meg confirmed, and Dean felt sick to his stomach. That bitch-! He was going to- " _Now let's try this again_. _We know you have the gun, John. Word travels fast. So as far as we're concerned, you just declared war. And this is what war looks like. It has casualties_."

"I'm gonna kill you," John told her through clenched teeth.

Meg only laughed and told him to mind his blood pressure. " _So here's the thing_ ," she continued once she stopped giggling. " _We're going to keep doing what we're doing. And your friends—anyone that has ever helped you, gave you shelter, anyone you ever loved—they'll all die unless you give us that gun_." John sighed heavily through his nose. " _I'm waiting, Johnny. Better answer before the buzzer_."

"Okay," he whispered. Dean's lips parted, not believing his ears. He understood, but… he still couldn't believe it. Meg mockingly told him to repeat himself. "I said okay. I'll bring you The Colt."

" _Good boy_ ," she complimented. " _There's a warehouse in Lincoln on the corner of Wabash and Lake. You're going to meet me there_."

"It's gonna take me about a day's drive to get there."

" _Meet me there at midnight tonigh_ t." John's protest were met by more mocks and threats. " _If you do decide to make it… Come alone._ " She disconnected the call, leaving the four of them in silence. John breathed audibly through his nose. Sam hesitantly retrieved his phone from the table and tucked it into his pocket.

"I can't wait to get my hands on her," Tracee grumbled, crossing her arms.

"Get in line," Dean said with a vehement nod of his head. He turned his gaze to John, who hadn't spoken yet. "You're not seriously gonna go, are you?"

"I have to. I don't have a choice," he responded. "If I don't, a lot of people are gonna die—our friends will die."

"Dad, no," Sam protested, standing from the chair. "The demon is coming tonight for Monica and her family. That gun is all we've got. You can't seriously just hand it over."

"Who said anything about handing it over?" John countered. "Look, besides us and one vampire, no one's really seen the gun. No one knows what it looks like."

"So what? You're just gonna pick up a ringer at a pawn shop?" Dean asked.

"Antique store," he corrected.

"You're gonna hand Meg a _fake_ gun and _hope_ she doesn't notice?" Dean shook his head. Despite the questions, he knew that his dad had already made up his mind. John's answer of 'She shouldn't be able to tell the difference' only confirmed it. It seemed that no matter what they did, their dad was determined to go kamikaze style. No. No, he couldn't let that happen. Not when they had just got back together. No, absolutely not. So while Sam and John argued, he formed a plan—a split second decision. Dean stared at Tracee, who appeared bored by the ensuing argument. More so, he looked at her hair. Okay, he now had an inkling of a solid plan. As though sensing his gaze, Tracee's pupils shifted in his direction, and then she turned her head as well. An eyebrow rose, questioning. "Fine," Dean said, cutting off the squabble between father and son. He turned back to his family to find their stares directed at him as well. "We'll do what you think is right, dad."

"Dean-!" Sam tried to object.

"Hush now, darling," Tracee interrupted. She stood from her seat. Sam turned to her, frowning, but he obliged her soft request. "Shall we go do what is right, Dean?" Careful not to let his relief show, Dean nodded his head. She understood. Somehow, she had gotten quite good at exchanging words with just the eyes. Well, she was adept when it came to language. Silent language wouldn't hinder her efforts to learn.

"Let's go to the nearest antique shop," Dean said. She made an affirmative noise, and then followed him to the door. He didn't speak again until they were safely inside the Impala. "Trace… I need you to do something for me." She sat patiently by his side, waiting for him to continue. Dean gripped the steering and squeezed his eyes shut. "My old man and Sammy—they'll all I have left. I can't lose one of them… but I can't protect the both of them either. Not this time."

"You want me to do _what_ exactly?" Tracee questioned. "You want me to knock him out? Because I'll do it. In a heartbeat."

"No…!" He sharply turned to look at her, but she had a grin on her face. Just teasing. He rolled his eyes. "Maybe later," he acquiesced. Tracee laughed as Dean started up the car. "Seriously, though… I need you to go with him." She frowned and turned her eyes elsewhere.

"You want me to leave the two of you behind?" she asked, buckling her seatbelt.

"It's…" Dean trailed off. "This is too important for him to go off on his own. He's gonna get himself killed, and I can't… I can't let that happen."

"What about you two? You think I'll be comfortable, leaving you two at the mercy of this demon?"

"We're not gonna be at anyone's mercy!" Dean retorted. "You know we can handle it, plus we're gonna have the Colt."

"… That's… what I'm worried about," Tracee admitted. He stared at her, confused. "This gun—we don't know anything about it. Not really. I'm worried that one of you will use it, and something bad will happen."

"Don't be a pessimist, Trace. Nothing's gonna happen besides a dead demon, dropping to the floor," Dean assured her. She frowned, not looking assured in the least. "Hey…" She looked his way again, but her eyes were hesitant. "We've got each other's back. We'll be fine. I think you should go with dad—have his back because _I_ can't." Tracee remained silent, frown deepening. "Sam already saw you do it," he mentioned. "With that hairstyle, you were with him. That's not a style you wear often."

"No, it isn't," she agreed. Then she sighed heavily. "You think I have to go?"

"I'm asking you to," he replied.

"You think he's going to _let_ me?"

"You think he's gonna _stop_ you?"

"Good point."

"So you'll do it?"

"Take me to a good drop point then."

"That's my girl."

 

0-0

 

John felt sick—physically ill. It had been two hours since he had left his sons behind to head to Lincoln, and the nauseous feeling had yet to go away. After so many years of waiting to see the demon that had changed their lives completely, and yet here he was, heading in the opposite direction. All because of one vampire. Had he shot the damn thing, they wouldn't be in their current predicament. They would have had the advantage of a surprise attack—all of them, together. Maybe with his boys backing him up, things would have gone smoothly.

Hell, he needed to stop thinking about maybes and what ifs. As worried as he was about his sons facing the demon by themselves, he also had to worry about himself. Like Dean said, he was most likely heading into a trap. He needed some type of plan. But he wouldn't be able to come up with anything without seeing the layout of the land. It was the reason he broke every rule of the road in order to get to the meetup point before midnight. If he timed it right, he might even get there fifteen minutes beforehand. Plenty of time to scope out any advantages this warehouse might have. That demon, Meg, showed that she was overconfident that things were going to go her way. She was obviously a rookie, and would make many mistakes. John was certain he could exploit them effectively given the chance.

Suddenly, he heard and felt a loud _thump_ over the roar of his engine. Instantly on high alert, John sharply turned his head to look out the window. What he saw made his eyes widen in surprise. He almost slammed on the brakes in response, but instead slowed his truck down to a halt. Once the truck came to a complete stop, he shifted in his seat, hoping that his eyes had played tricks on him. Admittedly, he hadn't been working with a whole lot of sleep recently. So maybe… But no. The image of the girl with braids merely grinned at him before standing. John watched her jump from the back of his truck, and then make her way to the passenger side before opening the door and sliding right in. "What the hell…?" he blurted out as she shut the door.

"Hi there," she greeted, nonchalantly placing a wooden sword on the seat in between them. John, taken completely by surprise, only looked back again, wondering where she had come from. Behind him was just a road… with an overpass. Had she jumped? From that height? What the hell? "It's about time you came along."

"How…?" John attempted, but he was rightfully at a loss.

"Dean dropped me off… somewhere. Didn't you wonder what took him?" she questioned as she put on the seatbelt. His oldest… Of course. He should have realized something had been amiss when Dean had showed up with the lookalike Colt, and without the little firecracker beside him. He had so easily believed that she hadn't met up with them because of the rain. Sam had confirmed that the girl despised getting her hair wet, so he hadn't been suspicious at all of her disappearance.

Glowering, John realized he should have been. With her fingers, the girl gestured for him to continue driving. He did not remove his foot from the brake. "You shouldn't be here, girlie," he told her. "You're supposed to be with Dean and Sam." She stretched out a bit before making a show of becoming comfortable. Her indifference was like a damned cat's. "Listen, girlie, it was clear that I have to go _alone_. Whatever it is you're thinking stops _now_."

"Oh, are you going to drive back to Salvation?" she asked. "Because I'm pretty sure that would be a waste of time." John scowled, realizing she was right. If he turned around now, he wouldn't make it in time—not by midnight. "And if you're thinking of somehow ejecting me from this truck, let me tell you right now… the retaliation will not be fun for you." She was… _threatening_ him. With her petite form, it was a wonder how ballsy she could be. "Given the choice, I would still be in Salvation, but Dean's convinced that walking into a trap is not a good idea. So since I don't have to obey _your_ orders, he decided I'm to be your backup in case things go _too_ far south. Shall we continue on our way?"

John hated to admit it, but he had been outmaneuvered. This girl and Dean—maybe even Sam—had conspired and executed a plan that he could not counter. An hour away, sure, he could have turned away and driven her straight back to Salvation. Even the ensuing argument wouldn't break the time limit. But two hours? It was just enough to not even consider turning back. And no matter how stubborn he could get, Dean must have realized that he wouldn't leave a girl stranded in the middle of nowhere to fend for herself and make her own way back to them. Damn. It appeared that he had no choice. It was frustrating, but… maybe a little bit admirable, too. He was still going to have a serious talk with his eldest upon their reunion. Reluctantly, John conceded defeat and switched his foot to the gas. So with a new addition, the truck set off for Lincoln once again.

Thirty minutes into the drive, John glanced at the girl. She had chosen to remain silent. With her head pressed against the window, her eyes remained on the words to the book she had brought along with her. She had pulled it out of the inside of her jacket almost immediately after they had set off and hadn't spoken a word since. Looking at her now, she had seemed completely unassuming. Nothing about her really stood out. She looked like a person that could get lost in a crowd. The girl's expression was normally so neutral that it was to the point of being cold. But he knew from experience that there was a wild fire within her. The outward, unassuming appearance was just a ploy. The truth of her quiet nature lied with the fact that she was cunning and attentive—staying in the background, waiting for the perfect moment to strike. John shifted uneasily. She had lashed out at him, verbally assaulting him with sharp and precise words that had taken apart the armor he had so easily placed himself in. Like his guard had meant nothing. She had seen right through. He had met many hunters in his life, but this would be the first time his instincts had practically screamed _predator_ at him.

It suddenly occurred to John that he didn't really know much about this girl sitting just a few inches away. She had suddenly appeared in his sons' lives, apparently a few months ago. She had extensive knowledge about vampires. She could be quiet and detached, but also harsh and fiery. She might have been British, but John didn't know for certain. She hadn't had the accent since she had given that tongue-lashing. And finally, he knew that she and Sam were together. Even though that kiss she had given Dean had told him otherwise. It had been a small peck to his cheek, but after knowing that she was the girlfriend of Sam, it had had him worried. Could she become someone who would forge a wedge between two brothers?

How had she come into contact with his boys? What were her motivations for traveling with them? Where did her knowledge about the supernatural come from? And to be so skilled as to kill a vampire—dead center—with a stake? How had she learned? The girl was an enigma, wrapped in a mystery. And John felt compelled to know. Just anyone couldn't be around Dean and Sam. This life was consuming, and wasn't for just anyone. And his boys—they already seemed so attached.

John cleared his throat, and shifted his gaze from the road to the girl. She merely quirked a brow, eyes not straying from her book. John clenched his jaw. He suppose that he deserved her ire. She hadn't exactly seen him in the best light. And what had Sam told him…? _Sometimes, she'll go off on our behalf._ Right. Though he wasn't thrilled about her obvious contempt, he could understand it. "So how long have you known about all this?" John asked. It had been a conversation starter as well as a subtle probing question to learn about her skill. The girl blinked owlishly before her eyes slid towards him. She sat upright and snapped her book close.

"A little over three months," she answered. John's eyebrow jerked in surprise. The same timeframe as Sam had told him. They had met the girl three months ago. How did she learn those things about vampires in a short amount of time? She had had knowledge that even he hadn't known. And he hadn't exactly seen her methods in regards to subduing that vampire, only the end result of the body becoming dust…

"Three months…?" John repeated. "And why exactly does Dean think you'll be _any_ use to me with your lack of experience." She tucked the book underneath her legs, and then crossed her arms.

"Experience doesn't always equal time, Poppa-Winchester," she said. "But if it's _so_ important for you to know, my father _instructed_ me to learn certain skills for about ten years. The following three years were spent increasing those skills as well as learning new ones. Dean is confident in those skills. I won't expect the same confidence from you, but rest easy… This katana isn't for show." Despite her answering, the response had been vague. The only thing she had explicitly stated—and even that had been vague—had been her skill with the sword. _Katana_ , she had called it. Japanese made. Was it real? John had scoffed at her weapon of choice before, thinking she had intended to use it as a stake for the vampires, but since she had said katana, hadn't that meant that she was walking around with steel?

John focused back on the road ahead, feeling snubbed. She had answered well. In the sense that she hadn't given sufficient information. The girl clearly didn't trust him enough to give any viable information about herself. And yet she acted so easy with his sons. _Hm_ … Perhaps he had been approaching her the wrong way? "Speaking of Dean… You seem pretty close," he began.

" _Shyeah_ …" Her eyes narrowed, becoming wary.

"Are you and he…?" John trailed off as though uneasy, but really he wanted a confirmation. He had questioned Sam earlier, and the answer had surprised him. Between his two sons, based on their past relationships, Dean had seemed the obvious option. Getting his meaning, the girl's face scrunched up as though he had given her a vile image.

"Absolutely _not_ …!" she nearly screeched. Well… That was good, he supposed. But just to be on the safe side, he questioned the kiss he had seen her give Dean. "What's wrong with kissing someone I care about? It was just his cheek. It doesn't mean I want him in that way. _Samuel_ is the one. He is my lover." Lover…? Who the hell went around saying that? And so shamelessly, too? The girl was definitely a strange one. "But since we're talking now… I have a wonder of my own, Poppa-Winchester." And why did she continue to call him that? "Does Dean's concerns have merit?"

"His concerns?" John murmured, furrowing his brow.

"Kamikaze," she supplied. He flinched, and he didn't know why. "Do you plan to go out like that?"

"No," he answered, turning his eyes back to the road. The girl hummed, but somehow it sounded accusing. "But I am willing to do what it takes for… for all this to be over." She hummed again and didn't comment. John couldn't begin to understand what went on in her head. He chose not to look her way again. Trying to figure it out by reading her expression wouldn't help. John frowned, gaze aimlessly pointing at the pavement. "I just want this to be over," he said, more to himself than the girl beside him.

He had been at this for more than two decades, nonstop, with no end in sight. So many years of hunting and surviving without any reprieve. He was so tired. He wanted to rest. He wanted to be done. He wanted his sons as far away from this as possible. He wanted Mary. God, he missed her so much. He just wanted it to be over. But it would never be over. Not when Dean had seamlessly acclimated to the life, having it turn into the only thing he might have been good at. Not when Sam seeing the future, horrible futures that would force him to act regardless of how he felt about it. _Powerful abilities_ , Missouri had told him. His son was… fated for this life. And he wouldn't be able to do a thing about it. Hell, he might have just made it possible—paved the way for fate to happen.

"Poppa-Winchester…" John snapped to attention, body straightening immediately at the sound of the girl's voice. He cleared his throat, mind focusing once again on the reality. "I suppose you and Samuel are actually a little similar, after all… What it takes, and all that. I hope you don't plan on doing something extreme this time around, though. This trap must have been orchestrated by mere underlings. So save that _what it takes_ shit for the final boss. You have two sons to get back to."

"You…" John narrowed his eyes. This girl was something else entirely. He honestly had no idea what to expect from her. But his first impression of her had been so wrong. Maybe he had been wrong about others things, too… "You're rude as hell," he told her. She took the comment in stride.

"Sue me—I'm an only child," she stated with a shrug as though it had explained everything. Still, the slightest of smiles tugged at his lips. "Anyway, are we going to ride in silence the entire time? Or does this radio actually work? _Please_ tell me you don't like rock as much as Dean does…" The slightest of smiles immediately vanished. "Oh, God, you _do_ …! Can we at least listen to R&B on the way back?"

"Don't touch my radio."

"See? Now you just sound like Dean."

 

0-0

 

John Winchester was smart. Perhaps that had something to do with his military training, but Tracee could understand why the man had lasted so long. While she disagreed with his 'I have to do this alone' mentality, she couldn't deny that his methods were effective. The two of them had arrived at the designated place with time to spare. Using that spare time, John had done reconnaissance on the warehouse, and had actually found something that might be helpful in the ensuing escape. Her father might have been right about hunters in general, but John happened to be in a league of his own. The man's isolation tactics worked for him. However… he wasn't alone this time.

Through narrowed eyes, Tracee watched Meg, the demon, pace back and forth in space of the meetup room. While John had done his thing, she had done some scoping of her own. Only this room seemed to be a sufficient place to have the confrontation. Her assumption proved right because Meg had sauntered in just a few minutes ago. Along with a male Tracee hadn't seen before. Of course she had brought in someone else. The male had chosen to hide in the shadows—an obvious ambush.

Fortunately, the two demons hadn't sensed her presence at all. Tracee remained out of sight on top of a large industrial pipe that was suspended over the room. Conversely, she couldn't sense them either—not with her Slayer senses, anyway. If she hadn't known better, she would have believed them to be just a couple of humans. Deductive reasoning had told her that it was due to their essence being inside a human's body. The only time she could properly sense them was when they actually displayed their demonic nature via black eyes.

Her father had told her that these types of demons were the worst kind because they so easily blended in with humanity despite the fact that they no longer had none. Then he had gone into a long-winded lecture about the different types of hell dimensions. Long ago, gates to these different types of dimensions had been opened, allowing the different types of demons to invade Earth. Victor hadn't gone into details about how these gates had ended up being closed, but he had informed her that all sorts of demons still walked this plane of existence. Though, they had adapted and hid themselves well because of Slayers and the large population of hunters. These smoke demons, as she had taken to calling them in order to differentiate, were more dangerous than other demons despite their relatively low numbers.

Tracee bit her lower lip, steeling her nerves at what was to come. She would kill with no hesitation against these demons, with her katana, as her father had instructed. A noise from the entrance of the room caused Meg to stop her pacing and look towards the opening. Tracee merely glanced at the arrival of John Winchester. He was a bit late, and with good reason. Despite his strategic mind, the man hadn't thought to park his truck out of sight. She had advised him to do so because she wouldn't put it pass Meg to take precaution and somehow sabotage their getaway vehicle. If things didn't go as planned, they could still escape. John had looked as though he had wanted to protest, but he had ended up giving in and agreeing. The keys had been left in the ignition, so that a quick escape could happen if necessary. So minutes from midnight, he had finally come.

"John, you made it," Meg greeted, turning to face him completely. "I was beginning to think you wouldn't show. Too bad, really. I was hoping to kill more of your friends."

"Sorry to disappoint," John quipped. Tracee held back a grin. She could see where Dean got it from now. Making jokes in the face of danger—it was a talent father and son shared, it seemed.

"I can see where your boys get their good looks," Meg continued, nonchalantly. Tracee rolled her eyes. John had been right about her. Wet behind the ears and arrogant. Dangerous combination, but could be exploited easily. John's eyes darted around, seemingly in search of her. Tracee furrowed her brow, hoping he would stop before Meg realized what he was doing. Thankfully, the female demon hadn't noticed. She had been much too busy mocking the man. Tracee refrained from rolling her eyes again. "Well, aren't you the chatty one?" Meg asked, noticing the lack of response. "You want to get to business?" She stepped forward. Tracee used the clack of her boots against the floor to unsheathe her katana. The demons and John were none the wiser. "Fine. Why don't you hand over the gun?"

"If I give you the gun, how do I get out of here?" John loudly asked. He was stalling and being loud for her, hoping to conceal the sound of her movement as she carefully and quietly moved closer to the two, making sure her empty sheath did not collide with the rusted pipe.

"If you're good as they say you are, I'm sure you'll figure something out," Meg told him. John visibly frowned and casually threatened to shoot her. "You want to shoot me, baby? Go ahead. It won't end anything. There's more where I came from." As she spoke, the other demon came out of hiding and walked forward. Tracee cautiously turned her body as John questioned the second demon's identity. "He's not nearly as much fun as I am—I can tell you that. So I suggest you give us the gun." Tracee pursed her lips, translating that as the male demon was a no nonsense type. He wouldn't give opportunities to exploit. Not as easily as Meg would. "Now!" In the silence that had followed, the female demon had lost her patience and was now holding her hand out expectedly. Taking a deep breath, John removed the revolver from the pocket of his jacket and held it out to her. Meg immediately took it, examining the fake like a hawk. "This is the Colt?" John stiffly nodded his head. Meg handed the gun over to her demon companion. "What do you think?"

The gun was handed off to the male demon, who thoroughly inspected it. The nail-biting silence was abruptly cut off when he fired the gun at Meg. The female demon shrieked in horror as she patted herself. The fatal shot had done nothing. "You shot me!" she screamed, looking towards the male demon. "I can't believe you just _shot_ me!" She seemed more concerned with having had been seemingly betrayed than the fact that she had been duped. Or perhaps it just hadn't processed yet. Uncaringly, the male demon threw away the gun and announced its fake status. Only then had she realized. Meg slowly turned towards John, who wisely took several steps back. "You're dead, John. Your boys are _dead_."

Well, it looked like the jig was up. Tracee quickly moved, dropping down from her perch. She landed on her feet right in between John and the demons. Meg's eyes widened at the sight of her and she physically lurched back. The male demon opened his mouth, but Tracee gave him no time. " _Deus_!" As expected, both demons shook under the weight of the word, and then fell forward. Meg on her hands and knees, and the other one had managed to catch himself on just one knee. After they regurgitated, they stared angrily at her, eyes devoid of any color except black. Meg called her a bitch—rude—and the other demanded to know who she was. "Your worst nightmare. Time to say goodnight."

She moved forward, one hand squeezing the hilt, and then twisted on the ball of her right foot. Her body twirled, and her katana followed suit. The blade sliced right through the neck, dislodging the head from the body. It had been a clean cut. The head rolled off and the body crumbled to the floor. The sharp gasp from Meg caused Tracee to shift her line of sight to the last demon. She gripped the hilt with both hands now and lunged for the female demon. Meg recovered quicker than anticipated and narrowly dodged the diagonal strike because one, she pushed herself backwards, and two, the swipe of her katana fell short due to Tracee's movements being hindered.

Sharply turned her head, she glared at John, wondering why he had stopped her. His hand gripped the back of her jacket and he yanked her towards him. Not expecting it at all, Tracee was practically dragged away. "What are you doing?!" she questioned once he had released her to lock the door they had gone through. "I could have-!" John interrupted by facing her and glaring coldly in return.

"What the hell was that?!" he demanded to know. "You killed him!"

"Well, _duh_ …! What'd you _think_ I was going to do with this?!" The man groaned as though aggravated, and then rushed for the latch that lead to the underground tunnel. Pissed, but confused, Tracee followed him down the opening in the floor. "Of course I killed him! Why are you angry at me?!" John started running, forcing her to jog after him. The bang of a door sounded, indicating that Meg had broken free of the room.

"Put that away!" he ordered, sounding every bit as frustrated as Tracee felt. He halted, and then turned around. Keeping the huff to herself, Tracee turned as well, moving behind the man and doing as she had been told. Only because it would be harder to maneuver in the small space of the tunnel with her katana unsheathed. Tracee wiped her blade with the front of her jeans before sliding and locking it inside her sheath. Her eyes narrowed, seeing that Meg had caught up to them. The demon looked murderous. John quickly turned a valve, spraying steady streams of water in the path between them and the enemy. The female demon looked down at the water, unimpressed, as it flowed through a grate. It hadn't touched her. Having long since lost all hints of amusement, Meg stepped forward. It took her a moment to realize that feet were burning. With a screech, she stumbled back to the safety of the grate.

"Holy water, John?! Real goddamn cute!" Meg snarled out.

"You're just mad that you've got throw up on your clothes," John retorted, smirk in his voice. Ignoring the aggravated growls, he took Tracee by the hand and hastily made their way through the tunnel. They didn't stop running until they were clear from the warehouse. It was then that Tracee snatched her hand back. "What the hell is wrong with you?! They were human, and you were just gonna cut them down like nothing!"

" _That's_ what you're angry about?!" Tracee nearly hissed back. "Are you kidding me?! We don't have time—and _I_ don't have the patience—for moral dilemmas! Whether that body was possessed or not, if it's being used for evil, I'm going to slay it! Hell, I did the human a favor by letting him rest in peace!"

"You…!" John seemed at a loss for words, but that hadn't stopped him from glaring at her, disbelief cloaked with distaste.

"And I sincerely doubt you'll feel a smidgen of shame when The Demon is killed by a bullet to the head, so don't you dare judge me!" John snapped his mouth close and averted his gaze elsewhere. Shame had slipped into his expression. Good. It was odd to her, really. She had believed he was the type of man to _not_ care. But, she supposed that Dean had to get his compassionate nature from somewhere. No matter how much the older brother tried to hide it, Tracee could see that he really cared about saving people. "Let's just… head back to Salvation for now. We can argue about right and wrong and necessary on the way back."

Before John had the chance to retort, he was suddenly flung away from her. A sharp gasp left her mouth as she watched the man become pinned to a wall by an invisible entity. No. This was telekinesis. Scowling, Tracee lowered herself, bending at the knees and her dominant hand gripped the hilt of her katana. Her eyes darted everywhere, trying to locate the demon that had caught up with them. Damn it. She had underestimated Meg. She hadn't believed she knew telekinesis. After all, she hadn't tried to use it during the last encounter. Tracee clenched her teeth, trying to locate the blonde demon, but only non-moving shadows were seen.

She had faced telekinesis before, but Max was human, and to be perfectly honest, she had used his emotional state to quickly overpower him. Tracee wasn't sure how she would fair against an angry demon, especially since she was technically by herself now. She grit her teeth, annoyed by these turn of events. If John hadn't been practically taken hostage… If he had just let her kill Meg… "N-No!" the man was clearly straining himself to speak. "Don't fight now! G-Go back to them! Go to my-my boys! They'll come for them be-because of the Colt... You have to go now!" His plea made her more annoyed. "Run, girlie… _Protect_ them."

"You foolish man…" Tracee muttered. Still, she could not deny that staying and fighting would result in either or both of their deaths. And what good would that do? The demons only needed _one_ bargaining chip, anyway. They would keep him alive as long as the brothers still had the leverage. For now, a tactical retreat was necessary for the bigger picture. "We'll come back for you," she vowed.

"Go!"

She didn't need to be told a third time.

 

0-0

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Getting real close to the season finale...


	19. War II

Dean was pacing. He had been doing it for so long that his legs ached, and even then, he continued to move back and forth in the motel room. He was frustrated, and worried, and completely overwhelmed. Sure, he and Sam had rescued the family—not their home, unfortunately—but in doing so, more fears were piled on top. They had not managed to kill The Demon. It was still out there, doing whatever the hell it pleased. Their dad and Tracee still had not made contact, and it had been hours after midnight. No matter how many times he had tried calling, John's phone only rang and rang until the voicemail picked up. With Tracee, her phone immediately went to voicemail.

A heavy sighed left his mouth as he listened to his dad's voice. Again. On top of all that, Dean had realized just how desperate Sam had been to kill The Demon. That desperation would have led to him rushing back into that house, which had been on _fire_. His brother had been so quick to ignore the obvious danger just to get at the demon inside. His smart brother must have realized he wouldn't survive, and yet he still… hadn't cared. Dean groaned, probably for the eighth time already, as he dialed John's number again. "Come on, dad! Pick up your phone, damn it!" he grumbled. He could not do this by himself. He couldn't. "Something's wrong."

Sam had not made a comment to his announcement. Dean frowned, snapping his phone shut. His brother had been quiet ever since the fire. Quiet, but tense. He was clearly frustrated, but for a different reason entirely. Not once had he made an attempt to get in touch with the two missing people. He just sat on the bed, brooding. Dean turned his attention to Sam, asking if he had heard, but knowing damn well that he had. "If you had just let me go in there…" Sam began with a slow shake of his head. "I could have ended all this." Dean scowled as he listened to the confirmation of his suspicions. Sam was pissed because he hadn't been allowed to throw himself in the fire on the slight chance he would be able to bring down the Demon as well.

"The only thing you would have ended was your _life_! You're willing to sacrifice yourself? Is it worth all that?!"

"Yeah!" Sam retorted, rising from the bed. Dean could only stare back at his brother, taken aback by the headstrong tone. He so easily had the conviction for _sacrifice_. "Yeah," he repeated. "You're damn right it is."

"Well tough shit," Dean snapped back. "I said that nothing bad's gonna happen to you while I'm around, and I damn well meant it. Sacrifice—pretty high up on the list of bad things, so you might as well get that idea outta your head right now."

"What the hell are you talking about, Dean?" Sam bit out, giving his pinched look. "We've been searching for this demon our whole lives. It's the only thing we've ever cared about!"

"Really? The _only_ thing?" Dean questioned. "Because I'm remembering how _you_ walked out on _everything_ to do with this life, _including_ the demon!" Sam pursed his lips and shifted his heated gaze to the floor. His Bitchface became more prominent. "Look, Sam—I wanna waste it. I do, but it's not worth _dying_ over!" His brother didn't respond, but he could tell that he wanted to argue. Of course he did. "I mean it, Sam! If hunting this demon means you getting yourself killed… I hope we never find the damn thing!"

"That thing killed Jess," Sam stated. "… That thing killed _mom_." Dean clenched his hands into fists. He felt his cell phone whine in protest under the pressure of his grip. He knew what his brother was trying to do. Bring up their mother in order convinced him of 'whatever it takes.' But Sam didn't know what it was like to lose Mary Winchester. He may have experienced the life because of her death, but he didn't _know_. Dean didn't blame him for that. He had been an infant at the time—he hadn't known any better. Sam must have cared more for what happened to Jessica than what happened to their mom at this point. Still, to point out what happened to their mom like Dean hadn't felt it every _single damn day_ was an insult. With difficulty, he swallowed an angry retort.

"You said yourself once…" he started, amazed at himself that he had been able to keep his tone neutral. "We lost them." Despite feeling it every single day, Dean had come to terms with the loss of his mom. It had happened over twenty years ago. He… had resigned himself to just not having his mom anymore. It had been a year since Sam lost Jessica. Sure, he pain was more recent, but he should have come to terms with it, too. He had to. "No matter what we do, they're _gone_. And they're never coming back." Dean saw the flash of fury a split second before he felt himself being slammed against the wall.

Sam had roughly grabbed the front of his shirt. With tears gathered in his eyes, his little brother glared down at him. "Don't you say that!" he practically snarled. Maybe he was overreacting. Maybe Dean deserved it for making that careless remark. Clearly, Sam hadn't been as over Jessica as he initially had said. "Don't you…!" He breathed heavily, clenching his teeth. "Not after this, don't you say that!"

Maybe it had been callous of him, so this sudden burst of emotion—Dean decided to let it slide. He had never lost someone like Jessica the way Sam had. The comparison of her and his mom was nonexistent and couldn't really be compared at all. He would never understand the type of grief Sam was going through. That he was still going through. Likewise, Sam would never be able to grasp how painful it had been to lose a mother. Not really. So he would let his little brother have this moment. "Listen to me, Sam…" Dean said, keeping his line of sight leveled with the angry stare. "We're not just fighting for mom and Jessica. We're fighting so that no one else has to go through what we went through. We're fighting for a world without this demon. We're fighting for us, too. So that our family isn't broken _again_. Mom and Jessica—wouldn't they want us to keep living after its all said and done? Wouldn't they want us to move on with our lives?"

For a moment, Sam only stared. Then he sighed out, however strained it had been, recognition had appeared in his eyes. He blinked twice, releasing the hold on his tears. "Dean…" He visibly swallowed as his fingers uncurled and lost their grip on the front of Dean's shirt. Sam stepped away, shaking his head. "I'm sorry… I shouldn't've…" He roughly rubbed at his jaw and sniffled. "You're right—I'm sorry."

"You… You can't be so desperate to die, Sammy," Dean told him. "After all this is done, I'm still gonna need you. Dad's still gonna need you. Hell, you _know_ how pissed Trace would be." A slight laugh came from Sam's mouth as though he hadn't been expecting to laugh at all. Mission accomplished. Well, it hadn't been just for laughs. They both knew, from experience, the rage the tiny tank could unleash when either of them were in danger. Death. Not even death would stop her from rampaging.

"Tracee…" Sam murmured. He sobered quickly and hurriedly wiped away his tears. "Something's not right," he said, facing away. "She or dad should have called by now. Call 'em again." Dean swallowed again, easier than before, and nodded his head. He uncurled his fingers from his cell and flipped it open. Just before he began dialing his dad's number, a chime went off, signaling a text. As he read it, his shoulders sagged in relief. He had worried for nothing. He sighed out loud, causing his brother to turn back around. "What?"

"Listen to this—a text from Trace," Dean told him. "It says… Phone died. 2% battery. Outta Gas. No money. Meet me at… _Blah, blah, blah_. She gives an address. The point is they made it out."

"She didn't mention dad," Sam pointed out.

"So? Not like she had a lot of time to go into full detail," Dean said, sliding his phone into his back pocket. He began moving around the room, picking up their stuff. The text hadn't mentioned urgency, but he would feel a whole lot better if he could see their faces sooner than later. "They're probably half way here."

"Why didn't dad just buy the gas?" Sam questioned, furrowing his brow.

"He probably just lost his wallet," Dean shrugged, and then made a grab for his jacket.

"Okay, so, why hasn't dad picked up his phone?"

"That's normal dad behavior," he answered. Finally, he turned to his brother. "What's with you? This is _good_ news, Sammy. The two of them are fine, but stranded, so let's go. Grab the Colt and come on." Without waiting for a response, Dean moved towards the door, lifting his bag on the way. Dad and Tracee were fine. He knew it. Sam was just being his pessimistic self. Normally, Dean wouldn't have room to talk, but in this case, things were different. Their dad hadn't been alone, and not even his recklessness would have stopped Tracee from protecting him just as fiercely as she protected both himself and Sam. He had the utmost confidence in the tiny tank. She had kept John safe. He just knew that he could count on her. Good ol' Trace.

So after checking out, and driving for hours, nonstop, Dean and Sam arrived at the meetup point.

Having immediately spotted his dad's black truck parked at a pump, the anxiousness he had felt nearly skyrocketed. Finally, they were all together again. Dean pulled in the gas station, parking the Impala on the opposite side of the pump. "I don't see them," Sam murmured, shifting in his seat to get a better look. True, neither one of them appeared to be in the truck. But there was an explanation for that. Like bathroom break or getting snacks. Sam moved to get out, and Dean chose to follow. They both went over to the truck and peered inside. Still no signs. Dean opened the driver's side door. He spotted his dad's keys still in the ignition. Then he noticed Tracee's sheathed sword on the floor of the truck. "Where are they?" Sam muttered.

"There you both are." The sound of Tracee's voice came as though on cue. The two of them turned to see the tiny tank walking towards them. Maybe she had come from behind the building. Dean's eyes widen at the sight of her. In the light of the morning sun, he saw her clearly. And the blood streaked across her left thigh was glaringly obvious. "I was beginning to think you weren't going to leave Salvation as quickly as you could." She seemed awfully blasé with the blatant eyesore painted on her jeans. "Did you just-?" Sam had left his side and had nearly knocked her over with a brutal hug, completely cutting her off.

"Are you okay?" he questioned, not bothering to let go. Tracee's muffled words caused Sam to release her. "What? Sorry, but _are_ you okay? This… This is blood." Dean approached the two, warily focusing on her thigh. He had seen enough blood in his lifetime to know that it was dry on top of her faded jeans. He realized that it couldn't have been hers and sighed inaudibly, relieved.

"I said it's not mine," Tracee told them, looking down as well as though she had forgotten about it. "Trust me when I say the other guy's a lot bloodier."

"Good on ya, Trace!" Dean wrapped his arms around her, and she immediately returned the embrace. Natural. "Glad you're okay." She hummed lightly before dropping her arms and ending the hug. "Where's dad?" Dean noticed the tension in her body the moment she processed his question. She reached up, nails scratching at the skin of her neck. Her eyes looked elsewhere for a moment, and in that moment, he felt his insides twist in apprehension. No…

"He's… been captured," Tracee answered, slowly. And just like that, the world shifted violently. Like someone had yanked it out from underneath him like a rug. It was strange that he had managed to stay upright. His head had spun with the news, and the twisting had only gotten worse. A startled cry of 'What?!' ripped from his mouth, or maybe it had been Sam. His own throat felt full and his tongue too heavy to form words. Tracee stared back, expression void of any type of sympathy. "I managed to get one of the demons, but not Megara. We… We ended up running. But she had psychic abilities that I hadn't been aware of. Poppa-Winchester was pinned, and she didn't reveal herself as a target. Actually, I don't even know if it was Megara. She could've had more backup at her disposal."

"So you just _left_?!" Dean found his voice and blurted out the accusation. Tracee visibly flinched, and then blinked rapidly. He had spoken louder than necessary, and as a result, her shoulders rose in a tensed way.

"At… At your father's command," she explained. "After some thinking, I agreed to it. Whatever Megara's motivations, she isn't the one in charge. The one in charge would eventually realize that two bargaining chips wouldn't be worth the effort. If I had stayed and fought against who knows how many demons, both of us could have died or one of us. That is something I could not risk by staying."

"No, you were supposed to give it your all!" Dean protested. "You were _supposed_ to keep him safe! No matter what!"

"I _just_ said the odds were against me," Tracee raised her voice a bit. "A strategic retreat was necessary at the time. I left, yes, but I left knowing that he would be kept alive. They found out that he didn't have the Colt, so they can only assume you two have it, which meant they would go looking for you in Salvation. Poppa-Winchester must have known what their next step would be, so he told me to get back to you. So, no, I didn't hesitate following that particular order. You had to get out of Salvation. I had to get to you. I did what I had to do."

He was hearing her. Problem was that he wasn't understanding. She had been supposed to protect their dad. That's the reason he had wanted her to go. So that she would defy _any_ order given to her by that kamikaze influenced man. She had been supposed to fight as viciously as she would have for either Sam or himself. Damn the consequences. Damn the logic. Damn the odds.

"Yeah, except your _fucking job_!" he ground out.

"Dean?!"

"You're the goddamn _Slayer_!" Dean continued, ignoring the incredulous voice of his brother. "You're supposed to stand against demons and darkness and all that shit! But you can't even save _one_ man when asked?!"

"I…" Tracee frowned, seemingly taken aback by his outburst. So full of logic and reason, she couldn't see why leaving John behind had been _wrong_. And her lack of sympathy just rubbed him the wrong way—pissed him off—and he couldn't control the anger inside. "I didn't have a choice… Considering the circumstances, I did my best." Again, she showed no remorse in regards to losing an ally. She didn't seem to care at all for leaving behind his dad.

"Then what good are you to me if your best's _not good enough_?!"

That was probably the worst thing he could have said. Tracee flinched, almost violently and took a step back. Like he had physically struck her. Eyes wide, she stared at him, lips parted. A pang of guilt hit him square in the chest. He had hurt her. Dean had known what her reaction would be, and he had done it anyway. Tracee dropped her gaze to the ground beneath them. A barely noticeable twitch happened before her eyes lifted to meet his again. Gone was the stunned expression and in its place was something he hadn't seen before. Mostly, it was impassive, but something about it was hardened. Smoldering like a volcano about to erupt. He had made a mistake. Dean froze, feeling his heart slam against his ribcage at the realization.

Tracee clasped her hands together in front of her, piercing eyes focused solely on him. She licked her lips and breathed through her nose. "You seem to be mistaken about something, Dean Winchester, so let me clarify for you," she began, unnervingly calm. Even more alarming—she hadn't gone full on British. She hadn't gone British at all. "This is not my life. This is my _hobby_. I will not give my all to this world you live in only to die alone and afraid like my predecessors. I will not die for this _at all_. And certainly not because of a man who's best consists of begging another to do something he can't do his damn self." Her words were blades that pierced and twisted inside. "A pitiful man that projects his own shortcomings on another—I will not follow the whims of a man like that. I _will not_ die for a man like that."

"Tracee-" Sam attempted to placate her, but she held up her hand, effectively cutting him off.

"No. And all this has just made me realize how _insane_ I've been acting these last few months," she continued. "What I've done, how I've been acting—it's not me. Slayer or not. And frankly, I don't care too much for it. So after Poppa-Winchester is saved, I'm going back to Ashland."

"Wait! No, Tracee!" Sam stepped closer to her, obviously not liking that. "I-I think we should all just calm down and think about this! We're all tired—that's it! We don't… You don't have to-"

"The only reason I'm not leaving now has to do with the fact that I made your dad a promise to come back for him." Tracee ignored Sam and kept her eyes on Dean. "After I've fulfilled that promise, we're done. I will not participate in your family's whatever-it-takes mindset. Because that's not who I am. I will not be changed to fit inside your biased beliefs about what should and should not happen in this world." A hint of her anger bled through her narrowed eyes. "I will not be judged by you, or anyone, when I cannot follow your ideals."

Hurt. She meant hurt.

"Fine—do what you want," Dean, stubborn as can be, turned away from her. "But for now, until we get dad back, everything stops. Get in the car. Sam, you're following me. We're going to need all the help we can get." There was no protests from either of them. Just silence until the sound of the doors of the Impala closed. Hidden by the gas pump, they didn't see the way Dean grind his teeth and furiously rub at his forehead.

Hopefully, they didn't see him kick at the pump either.

 

0-0

 

Things were tense and awkward. Tracee hadn't uttered a word during the entire trip. She had sat on the passenger side of the Impala, staring straight ahead, barely blinking, arms and legs crossed. She had been completely standoffish this whole time. Honestly, Sam hadn't known how to approach her. That had been the first time his brother and she had gotten into a heated argument. Their normal banter paled in comparison. Both of them had been angry. Both of them said some pretty hurtful things. Knowing how they normally were, it had been just weird how they exploded at each other.

Still, tensions were high. Sam should have expected another altercation amongst the group. And with dad gone—captured—things were headed further into southern territory. Not only that, but… Tracee couldn't have been serious, right? She hadn't really wanted to leave after everything they've been through, right?

Sam nervously rubbed at his jaw, and then put the car in park. They had arrived at their destination. Familiar territory as it were. He should have realized sooner that Bobby's had been the place on Dean's mind. It had been relatively close, and although the family and he had parted on less than good terms, Bobby Singer would remain an ally. Or, at least, he hoped the man wouldn't hold a grudge. He couldn't exactly remember what the argument had been about between John and Bobby, but he could distinctively remembering a shotgun.

He sighed heavily through his nose, and then moved to get out of the Impala. Hurriedly, he moved over to the passenger side to open the door for Tracee. She nodded her head in thanks, but her expression remained guarded, barely looking his way as she stepped out of the car. Sam furrowed his brow as he followed her to the house. This awkwardness needed to end. But judging by the way both Dean and Tracee ignored each other, even as they stood beside one another, they wouldn't be the ones to end it. Sam frowned as his brother knocked on the front door.

Moments later, they were greeted by the sight of Bobby Singer. He had opened the door and stared suspiciously for a few seconds before a grin broke out on his face. "Well, look who it is!" he exclaimed. "Dean and Sam Winchester—almost didn't think I'd see you two again." They both greeted the older man in return. Bobby turned sharp eyes on Tracee, grin fading a bit. "And who might you be?"

"My name is Tracee Noland," she replied.

"Bobby Singer," he told her.

"Charmed."

Her way of greeting had been peculiar, so it hadn't been a wonder that the older man's face twisted in confusion. "She's, _uh_ … She helps us with hunting," Sam supplied, clumsily. Truthfully, he had wanted to introduce her as his girlfriend, but that would have been a little too personal. Sure, he knew Bobby, but he hadn't seen the man in years. Because of their dad, this situation could easily turn hostile. "Can we come in?"

"Yeah, sure," Bobby nodded his head. Then he gestured for them to enter his house. He led them inside. "So what brings you to my neck of the woods?"

"You want the long version or the short one?" Dean asked.

"Why don't you tell me everything?"

"While they do that," Tracee began. "May you be so kind as to allow me usage of your bathroom? I would like to try to get this blood out of my jeans." Bobby blinked, and then slowly nodded his head. She was being too polite. Clearly, she was attempting to be as distant as possible. Yeah, that had to stop. Bobby told her where his bathroom was. After nodding, Tracee left the three men standing there. The owner of the house could only stare off after her, bewildered.

"She seems… formal," he managed. "How'd you two yahoos meet someone like her?"

"She's just someone that's helping us look for dad," Dean muttered. "Don't worry about her. S'not like she's gonna be around for much longer anyway." Sam shot his brother an annoyed looked to which he only shrugged. "Anyway, this whole thing started when dad suddenly showed up again after being missing for a whole year-"

"You know what? I'm sure Dean can handle this," Sam interrupted. "I'm gonna check on Tracee." Bobby frowned, yet didn't remark. Honestly, Sam didn't give a chance for either Bobby or his brother to. He quickly followed the path Tracee had taken, not hearing the faded conversation he left behind. Right now, he cared more about knowing where they stood than a recap of the past week. Things had been going so well before… before their dad had walked back into their lives. He hated to think it, but since the arrival of John Winchester, uncertainty had become the norm. Again. And now, he had to worry about Tracee's decision to just leave.

In her anger at Dean, she had seemed so unyielding to what she had told him. Behind the cold and formal tone lied the anger and pain. He knew it. He hoped he knew it. She had only retaliated against his brother. Still, some of what she had said made him feel some type of way, too. That whatever-it-takes bit… Guess it ran in the family. With no thought of anything else, he had wanted to pursue the Demon. Whatever it took to get at Jessica's killer. He frowned, realizing that maybe, on some level, he wasn't completely over her death. Not yet. And that made him feel guilty.

"Samuel…" He flinched, not realizing that he had been standing outside of the bathroom. So hesitant to announce himself. Maybe he was afraid to hear the truth, despite thinking that—hoping that her previous words had been empty threats. "Is that you?" Sam cleared his throat and nodded. "Samuel…?" Shaking his head, he realized that she could not see him.

"Yeah, it's me," he answered. "Are you… Can I come in?"

It took a moment, but she eventually told him that he could. Steeling himself, Sam gripped the doorknob and pushed the door open. He found her, sitting on the edge of the tub, head bowed and legs crossed, one on top of the other. Her fingers curled around the edge of the tub on either side of her. She looked haggard. Since he had known her, haggard hadn't been a word to describe her. This… This was new. He couldn't say that he liked it very much. "Are you angry with me as well? I seem to have a knack for pissing off Winchesters recently."

"No!" Sam exclaimed. "I…" He sighed heavily. Then he shut the door behind him. "No, I'm not. Dean isn't mad at you either."

"Feels like it," Tracee muttered.

"No," he repeated. "He's just… He's just feeling the pressure. With dad gone… it just makes things twice as hard for him. He's not mad at you, and… he didn't mean anything he said." Tracee chose to remain quiet. "And I know—I _hope_ —you didn't mean anything you said either." She didn't respond right away. Sam almost thought she would go back to her unapproachable attitude. But then she sighed.

"I don't know," she admitted. It was better than a resolute decision, at least. The way she had told Dean, going back to Ashland would be the end result. "I'm not used to feeling like this…" She shut her eyes, the tension in her knuckles showing that she was gripping the tub harder. A visible frown worked its way onto her face. "Most of my life, I've kept people at a distance… I guess this is the reason why." Tracee opened her eyes, gaze on the tiled floor. "My mind is telling me that his emotional state is valid. Poppa-Winchester has been taken by the enemy. Dean relied on me to make sure that nothing like that happened, and I failed. I _know_ he's frustrated. I understand his reaction." She sucked in a breath through her nose, and for the first time, Sam realized how watery her eyes had become. "That doesn't make his words any less hurtful." Sam could only watch, horrified, as tears trickled down her cheeks. "Goddamn it…" she whispered, hands reaching to cover her eyes. "When did I start caring so much about another person's words? I shouldn't be so affected."

"Hey, hey, come on…!" Sam moved closer, dropping down to a knee in front of her. He wanted to wipe her tears away, but he forced himself to rest his hand on her visible knee. His other hand gripped the edge of the tub beside her. "Tracee, it's okay. This is just-"

"No, Sam, it's _not_!" she cut in. Roughly, she wiped underneath her eyes. "This isn't me! Who I am doesn't let a fucking sentence get under my skin and gnaw on my insides! _Mworago_ …? My best isn't good enough? For _him_? Who I am shouldn't be effected by that! Who I am shouldn't be _crying_ over disappointing him! It wasn't even my fault! If Poppa-Winchester had just let me kill the other demon, we wouldn't _be_ in this situation! I wouldn't be feeling like this!" She dipped her chin, palm pressing against her forehead. Sam had never seen her so distraught. No. That wasn't true. She had been the same way with the Tulpa. And again, it had been at the thought of disappointing his brother.

Sam shut his eyes for a moment, breathing in deeply. He moved his hands again, sliding them up until his fingers lightly touched her sides. "Tracee," he began. She sniffled lightly, but focused on him. She uncrossed her legs and planted both of her feet on the floor. He swallowed hard before continuing. "I get it—I do. I know you, and I know that you're so independent. And you don't need a man to tell you the what for." She let out a surprised laugh. He grinned, glad that he had gotten her to smile. "But you do care about us. Caring means letting in all that good that comes with caring about someone. But the bad stuff is gonna get in too. It's what happens when people care, and I know that might be scary to you, but…" He pressed his forehead against hers. Tracee inhaled through her nose. "But it's not gonna cancel out all that good. You're not the only one who cares. Dean cares, too. I care… Don't leave us because of this. Don't leave us over this one argument."

"… I don't…" She licked her lips and shut her eyes, inklings of mirth gone in an instant. She reared back. "I don't think I can deal with him like that."

"Yes, yes you can," Sam urged. "You know how many times me and Dean have gotten into it like that? We can be pretty mean when we're mad, but we always make up."

"He's your _brother_."

"And _you're_ my girlfriend," he stated. His hands moved to her cheeks. "I don't want you to leave. I don't want two of the most important people in my life fighting and not making up. You're both so stubborn. We're _all_ stubborn. Arguments are gonna happen. But we're gonna make up. We're always gonna make up. Because we all care. If you leave, I'm gonna have to choose between you, and that's not something _I_ can deal with."

"Samuel…" Tracee pressed her lips into a thin line. Her fingers curled around his wrists and pulled his hands down from her face. "I like you. I really like you, but if you were to do something as stupid as choosing someone over your _family_ … I'd like you a whole lot less."

"… You _are_ a part of my family now," he told her.

She bit her lower lip, clearly trying to hold back a smile. A scoff left her mouth as she dramatically rolled her eyes. "You're too much," she said. A smile finally formed her face and relief flooded his body. He smiled back at her, placing himself between her legs and sliding his hands around her waist.

"I'd like to think that I'm just enough actually," Sam said. She rolled her eyes again, teasing him with the way her pretty lips tugged upward. "So are we good?" Tracee pursed her lips, and then sighed slowly. She rubbed at her face, wiping the liquid away. Then she rested her wrists on his shoulders.

"Real good," she replied. Sam's shoulders sagged in relief before he leaned forward to kiss her. She readily returned the kiss, pulling him closer and locking her wrists behind his neck. Their lips touched softly, lingering longer than necessary for simply chaste. But she reared back slowly before he had a chance to take it further. Still smiling, she pressed her forehead to his. "I'm not used to this either," Tracee admitted. Sam furrowed his brow and narrowed his eyes in confusion. "Being comforted in just the right way," she explained. Oh. Yeah. He got that, too.

"Same here," he confessed. "I'm glad… I'm glad I met you."

"Me, too." They shared another sweet kiss before moving to stand. "Hey, can you do me a favor?" Sam nodded. "Could you get me a pair of jeans from the car? I wasn't thinking about what I'd change into while I'm getting this blood out."

"Yeah, sure, but you've got to let me know how blood got there in the first place," he said. Tracee merely smirked.

"He's already dead, Samuel," she told him in a teasing way. He grinned sheepishly. Tracee might get violent whenever either brother landed themselves in a dangerous situation, but both of them were pretty aggressive if she became the one in danger, too. "Oh, and can I borrow your cell phone? Mine is still dead." She had already began searching for his phone as she asked the question. Shaking his head, Sam let her pat him down for the phone. "Thanks, darling." She stood on the tips of her toes to plant a kiss to his chin. Then she began pushing buttons. She probably just wanted to talk to Cassie, so with a shrug, Sam left to give her some privacy and to fulfill her first request of getting pants.

 

0-0

 

By the time Tracee had come back down the stairs, it appeared that Dean had finished telling Bobby about what had happened on the road so far. The owner of the house was nowhere in sight. Sam sat at the desk, eyes scanning the words of a large book. Dean had chosen to lean against an uncovered wall. Most of the walls were covered with newspaper articles. The room was filled with stacked books as well. This man, Bobby, seemed to have quite the collection of information. If only she had time to go through it all. She had to resign herself to just reading a small hardback book on exorcisms. Very informative. Oddly enough, her own father hadn't had this much knowledge on the subject. Most likely because possession was extremely rare in modern times.

Bobby suddenly appeared again, carrying two circular flasks. Tracee merely glanced at the new presence, noting the intricate design of the flasks before returning her eyes to the book in her hands. Despite reading, her ears still picked up the ensuing conversation between Dean and Bobby. Apparently, one of the flasks had been filled with holy water while the other only contained whiskey. Clever, she thought. Tracee briefly wondered if Bobby was an ordained priest as well like John. "Bobby, thanks. Thanks for everything," Dean said, after seemingly taking a drink of whiskey. "To tell you the truth, I wasn't sure if we should come."

"Nonsense. Your daddy needs help," he replied, sympathetic.

"Well, yeah, but the last time we saw you, I mean, you did threaten to blast him full of buckshot," Dean stated. "You cocked the shotgun and everything."

"Yeah, well, what can I say?" Bobby muttered. "John just has that effect on people."

"Who you telling?" Tracee couldn't stop herself from scoffing. In the following silence, she looked up from the page. Both Dean and Bobby stared at her. The older Winchester brother opened his mouth, but snapped it shut almost instantly. The teasing look in his eye faded just as fast. Like he wanted to fall back into the easy banter, but forced himself not to. Tracee inaudibly sighed. For now, it helped remembering Sam's words. Eventually, they would make up. But with John missing in action, she assumed Dean wouldn't be coming around so quickly. "So you've known Poppa-Winchester for a while then?"

"Yep," Bobby answered. "He may be an asshole at times, but that doesn't matter. All that matters is that we get him back."

"Agreed," Tracee nodded.

"Bobby, this book…" The awed voice of Sam caused her attention to be directed to him. The youngest shook his head, eyes finally leaving the large book. "I've never seen anything like it." Tracee pushed herself from the wall and headed over to the desk. She shut the book in her hands as her eyes darted to the page Sam had opened. He had been looking at a large intricate design of a devil's trap. Dean had used one in Chicago. She had assumed that Sam knew about them as well.

"You get a demon trapped in one, they're powerless," Bobby told him.

"Yeah, I think Dean used this in Chicago," Sam stated.

"No kidding…?"

" _Shyeah_ , but it wasn't as complex as this one," Tracee mentioned, pointing to the image. "The symbol had been damaged by water, but it had been an easy fix. If it had been as complicated as this one, who knows what would have happened."

"Picked it up the last time we were here," Dean said with a shrug. "Seemed important. Bobby definitely knows his stuff." He walked over to the desk as well, and Tracee's body immediately went rigid at his proximity. Hastily, she stomped down on her apprehension. There was no need for it.

"I'll tell you something else, too," Bobby spoke up. "This is some serious crap you've stepped in. Normal year, I hear of, say, three demonic possessions. Maybe four, tops. This year, I've heard of twenty-seven. _So far_."

"Twenty-seven…?" Tracee repeated. That was a far larger number than any her father had spoken of. What was it about this year? How had these smoke demons come through to this plane? Or perhaps the better question was: Why were they suddenly revealing themselves in such high numbers? With the high volume of hunters, not to mention hundreds of Slayers, one would think they would, at least, be wary of showing themselves. This all seemed orchestrated. "Do you know the reason for that?"

"No, no idea," Bobby stated. "But I know it's something big. The storm's coming, and you—and your daddy—you are smack in the middle of it." Tracee clenched her teeth. Shit. Well, if she had any thoughts of leaving before, they were all but gone now. She couldn't just leave the Winchesters to their own devices against an unprecedented occurrence. And besides, this whole thing seemed like a mystery, and she wanted to solve it.

Suddenly, the sound of vicious barking could be heard. Bobby tensed, saying his dog's name, and leaving the desk. The barking stopped as soon as he looked through the blinds. After looking for a moment, he turned back to them, blood drained from his face. He told them something was wrong. Just as he finished his sentence, the door busted open, revealing the blonde demon. She sauntered in, looking very much annoyed. "No more crap, okay?" She walked in, unconcerned with the way Dean unscrewed the flask in his hand. He quickly moved towards her, preparing to splash holy water. He didn't get the chance. Before he could get within a reasonably range, Meg swiped her arm and Dean went flying back, slamming against the far wall and crumbling amongst the books.

"Dean…!" Tracee cried, more than just pissed. She lunged at the demon, hand instinctively reaching for her katana's hilt, only to realize that it wasn't equipped at the moment. In fact, it was still in the truck. _Shit_. Seeing her falter, Meg's arm shot out, fingers wrapping around Tracee's throat in painful squeeze. She choked, surprised at how quickly her air was being cut off. The demon lifted her from the floor and her feet dangled uselessly.

"I want the Colt, Sam—the _real_ Colt," Meg demanded, no longer paying attention to her captive. "Right now. Or I'm going to kill this one." Then she chuckled. "No. I'm definitely going to kill her anyway for what she did to Tom."

"You let her go," Sam nearly snarled. "You let her go right now."

"Or _what_ , Sam? You think you can do anything before I snap her neck?" Meg asked, squeezing tighter. Tracee attempted to pry the hand that held her, but she was losing precious oxygen at an alarming rate. Her fingers clawed uselessly at the demon's wrist. "I swear after everything I've heard about you Winchesters, I've gotta tell you, I'm a little underwhelmed! First Johnny tries to pawn off a fake gun, and then leaves the real gun with you two chuckleheads. Lackluster, men. I mean, did you _really_ think I wouldn't find you?"

"Actually," a new voice caused Meg to snap her attention behind her. "They were counting on it." With a simple motion of the hand, the demon was knocked off her feet and slammed to the floor. Now that she could breathe again, Tracee quickly moved backwards, attempting to get as much oxygen back in her lungs.

"Tracee!" Sam rushed towards her. His hands came around her as she coughed out for taking in too much too fast. She swallowed hard, waiting for the dark spots to clear from her vision.

"Who the hell are you?!" Meg shouted. Instead of answering, the visitor moved her hand again. The motion caused the demon to slide along the floor, only stopping once it was effectively trapped. With a friendly smile, she dropped her hand.

"Sorry I'm late," she said. "You wouldn't believe the traffic on the way here." Tracee sighed in relief and gripped Sam's jacket to stay upright. The dizziness was quickly fading, but she didn't want to take chances.

"Something tells me you just wanted to make a dramatic entrance," she muttered as Dean shakily stood from his earlier collision with the wall. He stared wide-eyed at the new arrival.

"Maybe," she replied with a shrug. Again, Meg demanded to know who she was. "Oh, just your friendly neighborhood psychic."

"Missouri…?!" Sam blurted. "How'd you…?! What?!"

"Well, Tracee called me," Missouri explained. "Said you all had gotten into a spot of trouble."

"Helps to have a backup plan," Tracee mumbled, rubbing at her abused throat. She grimaced, knowing that she would have visible bruises later. Then she smiled, realizing that the demon was now powerless. Her gaze drifted to the ceiling where the large symbol loomed overhead. "How's it feel to be trapped again, Megara?" The demon's eyes followed her line of sight. Her expression immediately twisted into rage. "Now… Shall we begin your interrogation?"

No questions asked, the Sam began moving. He quickly found rope and a sturdy wooden chair. Together, they worked to tie the demon up within the safety of the circle as Missouri further explained her presence to Dean. Bobby had gone out to check for more demons, she believed. The reason Tracee had called the psychic had to do with her telekinetic abilities. She thought it would be a good counter attack against any demon who showed up looking for the Colt. The plan had worked perfectly, and out of the corner of her eye, she saw that Dean had nodded his head in approval. Tracee tried not to show how pleased she had become by that. Goddamn it. So damn effected by these Winchesters…

Tracee stepped back, away from the circle, admiring the knots used to bind the demon. Sam was a regular boy scout, it seemed. While her knots weren't as complex, they would do the job and keep Meg tied down. Especially without her demonic strength. "You know… if you wanted to tie me up, all you had to do was ask." Despite her disadvantage, the demon seemed unconcerned. Tracee would have to fix that.

"Sorry, blondes don't really do it for me," she retorted.

" _Ooh_ , I'll have to remember that," Meg smirked slowly.

Bobby came back, holding a metal canister. "I salted the door and windows," he told them. "If they're any demons out there, they ain't getting in." Plus, Missouri would be able to sense if any approached. Right now, they had the advantage, but they would have to tread carefully. This demon probably wouldn't give up any information from the opposing side for free. Judging from the disinterested grin on the demon's face, getting information would probably be like pulling teeth. Dean stepped forward, removing his jacket and tossing it to the floor.

"Where's our father, Meg?" he questioned.

"You didn't ask very nice," she replied mockingly coy.

"Where's our father, _bitch_?"

"Dean…" Missouri scolded.

"Sorry, ma'am," he apologized. Dean breathed deeply through his nose, and then began circling the captured demon. "Where is he? What did you do to him?" He halted his movements and stopped in front of her again. His questions were only met by a cruel smirk.

"He died screaming. I killed him myself," she answered. Inside her chest, Tracee's heart jerked. In an instant, she had become afraid. Logic had fled, and she could only think that she had made a terrible mistake. The cracking sound of flesh hitting flesh brought her out of the self-doubt she had been about to fling herself into. Tracee blinked once, realizing that Dean had struck the demon across the face. Meg slowly turned her head back to stare at the older brother. "Well, that's a bit of a turn on—you hitting a girl."

"You're no girl," Dean snapped. He sounded as though he wanted to hit her again. Bobby, however, went over to him, pulling him away. Tracee swallowed hard, following the two men into the next room. Sam and Missouri followed as well. "She's lying. He's not dead," Dean insisted. "You can tell, right, Missouri?"

"I'm afraid not. I can't tell," she answered. Her eyes glanced at Meg. "There's too much negative energy in her. So spiteful and full of anger. I can't get an accurate read."

"She's definitely lying," Tracee said. "Poppa-Winchester isn't disposable right now, not when whoever's in charge is wanting this gun. I… I didn't leave him to die." Dean looked her way, and his hard expression softened somewhat.

"Regardless, you've gotta be careful," Bobby said. "Don't hurt her."

"Why?" Dean asked, incredulous.

"Because she really _is_ a girl," Bobby replied. "She's possessed. That's a human possessed by a demon."

"The human is already dead," Tracee stated. All three men looked at her. "To test the gun, Megara was shot by another demon. If the bullet didn't get the heart, it definitely got the lungs. She's already dead." She let the new information sink in before continuing. "With all due respect, Sir Robert, we don't have time to think about the moralities of this situation-"

"It's Bobby," the man corrected.

"-We need answers and we need them now." Her gaze fell on the oldest Winchester, ignoring the minor interruption. "Where's the gun?"

"I'll get it," he said. His brow wrinkled in confusion, but left to retrieve the Colt. Moments later, he walked back into the room, carrying the gun. In his other hand, there was John's journal. "More leverage," he explained. "What are you thinking?"

"Fear tactic," Tracee answered. She took the gun from Dean and quickly worked to unload the bullets. Three left. Either Sam or Dean must have used it while she had been away. Cassie still hadn't gotten back to her about the repercussions. Damn it. Internally, she sighed. She supposed she would have to wait and find out. Sooner or later, it would be known. For now, she was going to use this gun. She headed back into the room that the demon sat trapped in and showed off the gun as well as the three bullets in the palm of her hand. "This the Colt," she informed her.

"And I'm supposed to believe that?" Meg scoffed.

"Believe what you will," Tracee responded with a shrug. Behind her, the four came back into the room as well, but she paid them no mind. She slid two bullets into the pocket of her jeans, and made a show of loading the third bullet into the chamber of the revolver. The demon eyed her, unimpressed by the show. Tracee thumbed the hammer several times in order to rotate the chamber. "Now, there's five chambers. One bullet. I have no idea where the bullet is right now. And neither do you. This is how we're going to play it. I will ask a question and you will answer. If you lie, I will pull the trigger."

"Is that supposed to be scary?" Meg asked, falsely sweet.

"This is not a fucking game, Megara," Trace said just as sweet. She stepped forward, pushing the barrel of the gun hard underneath her chin. Her head snapped up as though the barrel itself burned her. Doubtful, but maybe she started believing. "Under normal circumstances, I would have already killed you like that other one. But you now have information that I want, so you have a chance to leave this place and not die."

"And just like that, you've shown your hand," Meg countered, tilting her head back down. She eyed the gun, giving a casual smile. "You need me." No regrets, Tracee pulled the trigger. The click caused the demon to almost violently flinch. She wasn't the only one. Sam jerked forward, but didn't take a step.

"And just like that, you made me go against the rules of the game that we play," Tracee said.

"Tracee, don't…!" Sam urged. "We need every single bullet."

"Hush now, darling," she soothed. "If Megara follows the rules, I won't have to." She kept sharp eyes on the demon. "I don't think you understand quite enough what's at stake, Megara." The demon stared back defiantly. Tracee removed the gun from underneath Meg's chin only to aim it at her forehead. "If I shoot you, you _die_. There won't be any coming back. No going back to your hell dimension only to come back somewhere down the line. You will cease to _exist_. Forever. You understand me…? You will be forgotten… Like an insect I've unknowingly crushed under my foot."

"You're… You're not going to kill me with this," the demon tried to reason. "That'd be a waste, and no one wants to disappoint daddy."

"So he is alive then? Thank you for the confirmation," Tracee said. Meg glared, realizing she had given up information all too quickly. "As to disappointing daddy… I don't care about Poppa-Winchester's vendetta against you demons. I just want to know where he is. That's all. I'll use every single one of these bullets if I have to in order to get that information. One of you has to give it up eventually once you realize any and all of you are in danger. Now, I'm going to start asking you questions." The demon remained quiet. "Right then… Where is Poppa-Winchester?"

"He's dead!" Meg exclaimed.

"Wrong answer. You must be feeling lucky," Tracee remarked. Then she pulled the trigger. Twice. The demon flinched each time. " _Mm_ —looks like you are." Again, she thumbed the hammer several times. "But that luck ain't going too far. Where did you take Poppa-Winchester?"

"A building! A building in Jefferson City!" Meg hollered.

"In Missouri? Where? _Where_?! I need an address!" Dean shouted.

"I don't know!"

"What about the Demon? Where is the Demon?!" Sam also questioned.

"I don't know! I swear!"

"Not specific enough," Tracee announced after a quiet moment passed. "I think a little pain will loosen that tongue and jog that memory. Samuel, read her a little something." The younger Winchester cleared his throat and began to read from John's journal. The longer he read, the more the words seemed to take its toll on the demon. She groaned, clearly in pain. "What building is he being held at?"

"I'm gonna kill you!" Meg gasped. Fast, shuddering breaths left her, interrupting Sam's foreign words. "I'm gonna rip the bones from your body!"

"Hard thing to accomplish when you're dead or rotting in Hell, I'm sure," Dean commented. "Sam, keep reading." As instructed, more Latin words poured from his mouth, physically hurting the demon. The wooden chair moved back and forth within the circle. Loose paper from books fluttered harshly from unnatural winds. Supernatural energies crackled in the air, causing goosebumps to form on Tracee's arms. She kept the shudder inside, but she could definitely _sense_ Meg now. Her energy was being forcibly pulled from the body. Atom by atom. No wonder she was screaming.

"Sunrise Apartments!" Her screams finally formed words. Sam stopped again. Meg breaths were labored and ragged. "Third floor! He's… He's on… the third floor… That's everything… That's all I know… I swear…"

"… Finish it," Dean said.

"What? No! I'm telling you the truth!" Meg protested.

"I don't care," he retorted.

"You can't do this! I gave you the information! You _have_ to let me go!"

Tracee leaned forward, moving her arms around her back, locking them into place by grabbing her wrist. "I don't have to do nothing but stay black and die," she stated. A snort from Missouri almost made her calm façade break. Keeping her eyes focused on Meg's glare, she returned the casual smirk the demon had given earlier. "Finish it, Samuel." When he didn't immediately began again, she turned her attention to the youngest Winchester. He stared back at her, lips parted. "Samuel…?"

His eyes narrowed, but he his stare hadn't been directed at her eyes any more. Mainly, his eyes were focused on her neck. His lip twitched, and then his sharp gazed focused on Meg. "… I told you to let her go," Sam said. The demon panted heavily in response. His lip twitched again, and then he glared down at the page from his father's journal. " _Dominicos sanctae ecclesiae, terogamus audi nos, terribilis deus do sanctuario suo desu israhel._ " Tracee watched him as he read. She really hoped that her wide smile wasn't noticeable. Something about his form of retribution was alluring. But this was not the time to make bedroom eyes. Even if he sounded really good, speaking in Latin." _Iplse Tribute virtutem et fortitudinem plebe suae, benedictus deus, Gloria patri_ …!"

The end caused Meg to snap her head back. Screaming, the black smog erupted from the mouth and shot at the ceiling. Tracee watched the ceiling until the smoke disintegrated, leaving none of its presence behind. She exhaled sharply, not realizing she had been weighed down by its presence. But it was gone now. Slowly, her gaze fell back to the body still strapped to the chair. Blood dripped from her mouth. Internal bleeding. The bullet she had taken definitely pierced a vital organ.

"She's still alive," Missouri stated just before the girl began wheezing and sputtering. "Not for long, I'm afraid."

"Call 911," Dean said, moving forward. "Get some water and blankets!" Bobby was the one to respond to the demand. The owner of the house quickly rushed off as Dean and Sam began untying the girl.

"Thank you," the girl whispered, and then gagged on her own blood.

" _Shh_ , _shh_ … Just take it easy, all right?" Sam told her. Tracee remained unmoving as the brothers lifted the girl from the chair and onto the floor. Not just her mouth, but her nose had begun bleeding as well. Nothing could be done for her. She realized it, but… something inside shattered at the image before. Even though she was right there in front of her, she hadn't been able to save her life. Tracee swallowed, frozen on the spot as Dean and Sam attempted to make the girl as comfortable as possible.

"Year… A year…" she mumbled. Her voice barely went pass a murmur. "It's… It's been a year. I've been awake… for some of it." She gasped in pain as tears leaked from her eyes. "I couldn't… I couldn't move my own body. Th-The things I-I did—it was a nightmare." Missouri moved forward, crouching down beside them.

"It's almost over now," she said softly. Her hand grabbed the girl's. Missouri shut her eyes and winced. "The demon that you boys are looking for isn't there, but your father is. It… It will be a trap."

"If dad's still alive, none of that matters," Dean said. Bobby came back into the room with a glass of water and a blanket as instructed. The older Winchester took the glass and attempted to have the girl drink. The water was only spit back up. The girl gasped again, turning her eyes to Tracee. Her mouth moved, but sound was too difficult for her. She croaked and coughed and finally spoke.

"Th-Thank you, Slayer… For saving m-me," she sobbed. The others looked her way as well. "I'll ne-never… I'll never… forget… seeing y-you shine… so br-bright…" With those parting words, the girl breathed for the very last time. Tracee stiffened, unsure of how to react to what just happened. Her gaze fell to the floor as Sam covered the girl's body with the blanket.

"How did she know?" she asked in a whisper.

"Sometimes, the ability to _see_ comes right before death," Missouri said. "In her final moments, she saw what you are—a natural ability of spirits." Tracee bit her lower lip and lightly scratched at her throat. "May I speak to you alone, Slayer?" She could only nod. Honestly, she had wanted an excuse to get away from the dead body. This was… somehow different. Like a turning point. It had left a sour taste in her mouth. Almost on auto-pilot, Tracee allowed the psychic lead her out of the room, and then outside the house. Once outside, Missouri turned to her. "Who taught you interrogation tactics? Was it your Watcher?"

"No, Madam," Tracee answered, unsurprised that the psychic knew about Watchers, too. "I've learned that these types of demons are close enough to humans in regards to mentalities. Preying on fear is actually quite easy. Plus, DMX is a great reference." Missouri merely shook her head. "I've been trying to get Dean to listen to him—just one song—but he won't budge. Bet he'd be a lot better at intimidation if he did."

"Good luck with that," Missouri didn't sound too confident, but Tracee decided to ignore that. "How were you able to use that gun?"

"… Random question is random," she replied. But, at least, it had been able to take her mind off the dead girl.

"Is it random? You used a gun that you've never held before effortlessly," Missouri stated.

"How do you know that?"

"Cassie told me, of course. She said you don't like guns because… _they're stupid_."

"They _are_ stupid," Tracee muttered, not caring about Missouri's use of air quotes. Then realization dawned. "Oh… I shouldn't've been able to do all that then, huh?" Missouri shook her head, and then held out her hand. With a sharp gaze, the realized that the psychic would be able to tell her things, concerning the Colt. Wasting no more time, she handed the gun over to the woman. Missouri shut her eyes, weighing the firearm in her hand.

"I thought so," she murmured. "This gun has been wielded by a Slayer before. You knew how because she knew how."

"Poppa-Winchester said that a hunter used this gun—said it was a he," Tracee mentioned. Missouri snorted in amusement.

"John also doesn't know about the existence of Slayers," she stated. "But I assure you, a Slayer's essence lingers on this gun. I'm willing to bet the bullets are like that, too."

"Is this a cursed gun?" she questioned, pulling the three bullets from the pocket of her jeans. Before, she had used sleight of hand to trick the demon. Cassie had told her about using it because her mother had walked in on her with a dagger. Had to hide it quick. After that, Tracee, herself, had been practicing the skill with little objects on the long car trips. Worked like a charm. She passed the bullets to Missouri.

"No. In fact, these are blessed," she answered. Tracee sighed heavily, glad that she wouldn't have to worry about some horrible calamity falling on the Winchesters for firing the gun. Missouri suddenly yanked her hand back and the bullets fell to the ground. "Oh my God…!"

"What?" Tracee dropped down to pick up the silver bullets.

"Those bullets… They're made with the blood of a Slayer," Missouri stated, sounding shocked. Tracee's eyebrows rose in surprise. That would explain why only one gun and thirteen bullets had been created. If Samuel Colt had, indeed, created this weapon for a Slayer, he wouldn't just keep taking her blood. Whoever the Slayer had been back then probably wouldn't willingly give more than whatever had been needed. "Slayer's blood was used to mold the bullets as far as I can tell. It was a very... complex ritual."

"Was it blood magic?"

"I'm… I'm not sure about that," Missouri admitted.

"That's okay, I guess. Cassie's actually finding out more about it," Tracee said. "But thanks for telling me about it not being cursed. Puts my mind at ease. She might actually be able to find more information now that I know a Slayer lived in America in the 1800s." The opening and closing of a door caught her attention. She looked back to see Dean and Sam leaving the house. "Sorry to cut this short, but it appears that we're leaving now. Thank you for everything, Madam."

"Anytime, Slayer," the psychic said with a nod. She gave the gun back to her. "Max is doing fine, by the way."

"Oh? Is he? Every time I try to call, it just goes to voicemail."

"He's still… adapting. But he is getting better."

"Good. I hope to hear from him soon."

"Trace! We're going!" Dean called out to her. She turned her attention to the older brother. He was in the middle of grabbing her katana from his father's truck. "Let's go!"

"I'm coming!" she called back. Then she turned back towards the psychic. "Safe travels, Madam."

"Likewise. Tell them not to be strangers."

 

0-0

 

Missouri Mosely set her purse down and sighed. The drive back to Kansas had been weary. Not to mention the power she used before that. She was tired, and she couldn't wait to crawl into bed. Maybe she wouldn't open tomorrow. That was probably a good idea. The psychic stilled, sensing a familiar presence. "Boy, did no one tell you that sitting in the dark is not cute?!" she asked. The light immediately came on, illuminating her living room. Her house guest sat on the couch, appearing apologetic. "Trying to give an old lady a heart attack—shame on you, Max Miller." The younger psychic apologized, and then one by one, all the lights came on.

"Where were you?" he asked. The boy had begun to his abilities again. About a month ago, if she recalled. Little things moved about effortlessly around him. He was, indeed, just like Sam. Both were powerful psychics. They had the potential to be the strongest, in fact. It was a little unnerving. Out of all the fellow psychics she had personally come across, those two were in a league of their own. She hadn't said anything at the time, but she had sensed the growing power within Sam at the junkyard.

"You didn't see my note on the fridge?" Missouri questioned, hanging up her jacket. "I'm pretty sure that's where I left it."

"You left it on the counter, actually," Max corrected. Amusement tinged his words and aura trembled in delight. Despite the correction, Missouri found herself smiling a bit. The boy had come a long way from when he initially had come. His aura had been dank and dark, swirled in misery. Some days had been really bad to the point where his very room had been shrouded in darkness. Only a month ago had his demeanor changed. His job at the local butcher shop had been a good help. Interacting with different people helped, and he learned not to flinch away whenever he made any type of contradictory remark. He still had a long way to go, though.

"Boy, I know where I left it," Missouri said, teasing him. Max nodded and the amusement fled from his aura. Yup, still a long way. She held back a sigh. "Did you dust today?"

"Yes, ma'am," he answered. "Before I went to work." He cleared his throat. "Where were you? The note didn't say." He fiddled with his fingers. "Just that… that Tracee called and you were meeting her."

"Yes, had to do a little errand for her."

"What… What was the errand?"

"My, you've become curious, haven't you?" Max cheeks colored as he turned to gaze to the floor. He murmured an apology, nails digging into his own skin. "You don't have to be sorry, Max. It's alright." He nodded his head again, but appeared uncertain. But at least he stopped harming himself. "She's still traveling with those boys, and she needed my help. My psychic expertise."

"Why would she need that?"

"Is that really what you want to ask?" Missouri questioned. Max pressed his lips into a thin line. "She did call _you_ , but you didn't answer."

"I'm not ready," Max confessed.

"I know," she replied, softly. "But I can tell you _are_ ready for the truth, Max. Will you let me tell now?" The boy shifted on the couch, hands clenching into fists in his lap. He breathed in deeply through his nose. Missouri knew his answer before he gave it.

"Okay. Tell me the truth."

0-0


	20. War III

Tracee narrowed her eyes as her fingers rapidly flew across the keypad of her cell phone. It had been charging the entire time they had been at Bobby's, and now that new information had been gathered, she was in the process of relaying that information to Cassie Robinson. Not all, of course. Some information was just too valuable to transmit via text message. When given a chance, she would definitely have to call her fellow Slayer. For now, she could at least tell Cassie about their sister in the 1800s. The way she had worded the text was vague enough for prying eyes to become confused.

With a sigh, she relaxed against the hood of the Impala. They had arrived in Jefferson City, and had located the place where John was being held. Sunrise Apartments had been quite the building. Many people lived there, so they couldn't just go in guns blazing. Any and all could be on the side of demons, and so they had driven away and parked down the river. They needed a plan to infiltrate. More than likely, though, the demons knew what they looked like. All of them, so just walking in wouldn't be the best option. However, neither brother had spoken up since the car had stopped. Sam was busy reading the large book he had taken from Bobby's. Dean was at the back of the car, gathering things from the trunk. At this rate, she could only hope things would go smoothly.

A frown worked its way onto her face. While they were being usually quiet, it did give her time to ponder. Placing her cell phone in her jacket pocket, she wondered if she should tell the brothers what Missouri had told her about the Colt. Well, of course she would tell them. Eventually. But she would have to think about timing. For now, this wasn't the time to bring it up. It wouldn't change anything about their current objective. Perhaps after John was successfully rescued…? Still, she wasn't sure if she would let John in on it. Kill anything bullets with the special ingredient being Slayer blood—seemed like a secret people shouldn't really know about. Even the best of intentions could place her sisters in danger. Despite the good it might do, Slayers would probably be hunted and experimented on by demons and hunters alike.

Tracee shuddered internally at the thought. To be responsible for such a thing made her feel sick. Maybe… Maybe she shouldn't tell them after all. Dean and Sam were trustworthy, but their whatever-it-takes mentalities were worrisome. Despite not meaning the words she had said to the older brother, she still believed that this family didn't truly think about the consequences of their actions. Maybe that was the reason John had been such a loner. Maybe the man had learned to be closed off as to not effect anyone else. Tracee had picked up that vibe from him, too. She reached up and scratched at her neck. It would probably be best to talk to Cassie first before making that decision. If she really thought about it, the components of the gun and bullets were not the business of hunters. The gun, itself, had been made for Slayer hands anyway. It wasn't for them to decide.

Sam cleared his throat, snapping Tracee out of thoughts of the Colt. She looked his way only to see him focused on his brother. "You've been quiet," he stated. It was an attempt to get a conversation started, she realized. All of them had been quiet since leaving Bobby's. More than likely, that girl's death weighed heavily on their shoulders. And yet… In the end, saving John was a heavier burden. Tracee shifted her gaze to Dean. The older Winchester frowned, fiddling with the gun in his hands, but didn't speak. "What are you thinking about?"

"… Just getting ready, Sam," Dean muttered, voice barely concealing exasperation. Sam huffed lightly before he looked in her direction. Tracee frowned as well and shook her head, silently urging Sam to let it go for now. The younger brother huffed again, but quieter than before, and then went back to reading the large book. A few moments passed, only filled with the ambient sounds of nature and the soft clicks of gun preparations, and then Dean spoke up again. "Listen, I've been thinking…" he said. "It's actually pretty damn smart of these demons to choose an apartment building. They could literally possess anybody, and we wouldn't know it until we got attacked ourselves, so we first need to separate the demons from the humans."

"How do we do that?" Sam questioned.

"Pull the fire alarm," Dean stated. "The humans are gonna react the way they're supposed to. I'm guessing the demons wouldn't be so quick to leave their post."

"Clever," Tracee complimented. The older Winchester visibly strained to keep himself from smiling. She almost rolled her eyes at his poor attempt. "How do we get in after if first responders arrive? Doubtful they'd let us in."

"Extra uniforms," Sam said. "We'll blend right in  _and_  conceal our identities from the demons."

"Not to mention… We can use the hoses to spray holy water so we don't have to kill the human shields," Dean continued. "We'll keep 'em at bay while we grab dad, and then split. We already know they're on the third floor, so we don't have to waste time on other floors."

"Okay, sounds good, but… slight problem. Not many uniforms out there are meant for women of my stature," Tracee remarked. "We'd look quite the part with me falling over baggy clothes."

"Right, okay, so…" Dean bit his lip, hesitating. Then his expression brightened. "You'll pull the alarm, and then hide. Wait for us to come in. Then we'll all go to the third floor." Tracee nodded her head. "Alright, let's go save dad."

"Wait a sec…!" Sam urged. He began drawing on the car, marking it in white. Expectedly, Dean cried at a protest at the sight. Ignoring him, the younger Winchester finished drawing a symbol. Tracee went over to that side to see. It appeared to be a replica of the symbol from the book Sam had been looking over. The design was even simpler than the one in Chicago. "Calm down," Sam told his brother as he moved to the other side of the Impala. "It's another trap. Demons won't be able to get in. The trunk will be a lockbox." He began drawing again, unconcerned with the way Dean tried to get rid of the white insignia.

"Why the hell do we need that?" he asked, glowering when the marks didn't rub away under his fingertips.

"So we can have a secure place to hide the Colt while we go get dad," Sam answered.

"What are you talking about? We're bringing the Colt with us," Dean said.

"No, we're not," Sam retorted. "We can't. We've only got three bullets left. We can't use them on any demon. We gotta use it on  _The_  Demon."

"No, we have to save dad, Sam! Okay? We're gonna need all the help we can get!"

"We have enough help! We have Tracee!"

"Yeah, cuz that worked  _so_  well the last time!" Dean snapped.

The bite of his words stung. Tracee's gaze averted to the ground, trying hard to stifle feelings of hurt springing up again. This was fine. Dean was understandably upset. It was… an appropriate emotional reaction. She understood his reasons. Under pressure, anything, no matter how bad, could be blurted from his mouth. Even if he didn't mean it. She grit her teeth and clenched her fists, willing herself not to be provoked into saying awful things in return. Again. "Dean, that is  _not_  fair!" Sam raised his voice.

"It's alright, Samuel," Tracee whispered. "I can take it." He shot her a look, obviously vexed by the passive response. He knew damn well that she had lied. Especially since he had been the one to comfort her because she  _hadn't_  been able to take it. Swallowing, she shifted her line of sight to the ground again. "Regardless of that, no, the gun should not be taken. The remaining bullets have to count towards the Big Bad.  _Only_  the Big Bad. They can't be wasted on cannon fodder." She could practically sense Dean's indignant incredulity.

"She's right. You know how pissed dad's gonna be if we use the bullets?" Sam agreed. "Dean, he wouldn't want us to bring the gun."

"I don't  _care_ , Sam!" Dean shouted. "I don't care  _what_  dad wants, okay?! And since when do  _you_  two care at all?! Just a few hours ago, we were  _all_  willing for Meg to bite the bullet!"

"It wasn't loaded," Tracee stated. "I  _tricked_  her, Dean. I had no intention of using such an important weapon." The older Winchester scoffed and crossed his arms. Hopefully, his silence meant that reason was returning. "I  _know_  this family wants this particular demon dead. But I also know that you three don't  _want_  this life forever. This was  _never_  supposed to be forever for the three of you. Hell, if Poppa-Winchester would have gotten his way and the demon hadn't gone into hiding, you two wouldn't even  _know_  about this life in the first place, I'm sure!" Both brothers looked away from her, expressions too guarded to read.

"Look—interacting with you three has made me realize that this gun is more than just a weapon. It's a  _decision_ —one where the Winchesters can  _walk away_  from this life. But if those bullets are used on any other demon  _before_  we even encounter the Big Bad, you  _won't_  have that choice anymore. Because I guarantee that this life you have… will  _be_  forever."

In the silence that followed, Tracee noted the tension in Dean's jaw. He lightly kicked at the gravel, and then sighed through clenched teeth. "Fine," he muttered. Pulling the gun from the inside of his jacket, he made a show of tossing it into the trunk of the car. Seemingly satisfied with the show, Sam shut the large book, and then moved around the car to put it in the backseat. Tracee, however, watched the older brother through narrowed eyes. Dean frowned, made a face at her, and then slammed the trunk close. Only then had she become satisfied that he wouldn't bring the Colt. Once Dean turned his back to her, she left out a quiet sigh. "Let's go."

Roughly fifteen minutes later, the plan had gone into effect. She had, as instructed, pulled the fire alarm of the building, and then found a small space where she could hide. Sam and Dean had come along, after having a hard time of locating her, and the three of them traveled up to the third floor. Dean had the EMF out and was scanning each room they approached. So far, nothing. "I always wanted to be a fireman when I grew up," Dean mentioned, voice muffled by the smoke mask that he wore. Sounding surprised, Sam said that his older brother never told him that tidbit of information. Either it was an attempt at humor for the serious situation—which Dean had a knack for doing when he was nervous—or that bit of trivia had actually been true. Hell, it might have been both.

Tracee remained quiet on the subject. Before Dean could respond to his brother, the EMF began whirring frantically. All five lights were lit red, sensing the supernatural energies behind the door it was pointing towards. A frown worked its way on her face. It wasn't fair that technology could sense these types of demons and she couldn't. After a look of understanding, the two brothers stood in front of the door, blocking her from view. As she wasn't in disguise, it would look strange to see a third person if they happened to look through the peep hole. After putting away the EMF, Dean knocked on the door.

She tensed in anticipation. Silence greeted them. Again, the older Winchester knocked on the door, shouting that they were with the fire department and that an evacuation needed to take place. That seemed to do the trick because in the silence that followed, Tracee could hear locks sliding out of place. As though sensing her intention, the brothers moved out of the way just as her leg lifted. Her foot shot out hard, kicking the door open. She barreled through, eyes immediately finding a woman. She looked pretty ordinary. Only thing, though, was the black of her eyes. Demon.

The female demon rushed forward. It took her entire will not to react instinctively. To not go for the kill. It was another reason she hadn't brought her katana. If John had such a negative reaction, then surely Dean and Sam would, too. Instead, she grabbed the arm, which had been launched in an attempt to punch, with her right hand. Her fingers gripped hard as she twisted her body and pushed the demon behind her with a shove. Screeching, the demon turned back to her. Behind her, the brothers were spraying down another demon—male body—having him backed into a corner because of the jets of holy water.

The female demon ignored the males and charged for Tracee again. The Slayer evaded, blocked, and parried all attempts. It was so hard not to strike back. If she did, the woman's body would be broken once the demon left. She had to control herself until- The demon jerked forward because she had been pushed by the struggle behind her. Not expecting it, a hard punched to the face caught Tracee off guard. The Slayer stumbled back, and in doing so, she was kicked pretty hard, sending her crashing into a coffee table. The glass shattered under her weight and a few shard sliced into her cheek.

The Slayer sharply turned her head, wince on her face. She glared at the demon smirking above her, about to stomp down. Broken didn't mean  _death_ , though, did it? Nearly snarling, Tracee lifted her leg and launched it at the demon's kneecap. The demon gave an ungodly scream, almost louder than the snap of bone. She fell to the floor, leg bent at an awkward angle. The Slayer used the time to roll backwards on her shoulder in order to quickly stand up again.

She reached forward, the fingers of both her hands curling around the shirt of the demon. She howled and screeched, black eyes showing fury. "Tracee!" Sam called to her. She glanced his way, noting that the two brothers were struggling to push the male demon in a nearby closet. Dean shoved hard, successfully getting the demon in. Wasting no more time, the Slayer threw her opponent towards the open door as well. The older Winchester slammed the door shut and put his full weight against it. The pounding on the other side showed that he was struggling to keep it close.

Sam moved quickly, pulling out the canister full of salt from the dropped duffle bag. He hastily laid out a half circle, surrounding his brother and the door. Once he finished, the banging stopped. "We've got to move," Tracee urged. The demons had obviously left their hosts. Nodding, the two brother began to strip out of their disguises. She blinked three times in rapid succession, gaze honed on the way Sam ripped off the fire jacket. Probably not the best time to be thinking about him stripping, but oh my  _god_ … The image seared in her brain and her imagination went wild with it. He snatched the front of the fire jacket undone, but instead of his normal clothes, only glistening skin was revealed. Tracee swallowed, feeling her tongue curl behind her teeth.  _Guh_.

"Trace, come on!" Dean shouted, startling her out of her daydream. She cleared her throat and shook her head, willing the image away. The two brothers had finished removing the disguises and were now heading further into the apartment. Tracee headed after them, telling herself not to pluck the jack from the floor. She stopped behind them as they stared another room. Squeezing through their still forms, her eyes settled on the bed. John laid there, spread eagle, wrists and ankles tied down. He didn't move at all.

For a second, her heart stuttered in her chest. She could see a smear of blood on his chin. Then she shook off her fear and moved into the room. She went over to the right side of the bed, peering down at the oldest Winchester. Her fingers gently grasped his chin, moving his head to the side. Again, John didn't respond. Tracee heard Dean let out a choked gasp, probably assuming the worst. Hastily, her fingers slid down, checking for a pulse. It took a moment, but… there was a steady beat underneath her fingertips. "He's alive," she announced.

The two brothers released heavy sighs in sync before Dean moved into the room. He walked over to the other side of the bed. He immediately began trying to rouse John awake. When that didn't work, he pulled his switchblade from the back pocket of his jeans. He quickly set out to free his father from the cloth ties. "Wait…!" Sam protested. Dean halted, staring at his brother. Tracee looked back towards the door as well, just as confused. "He could be possessed for all we know."

The idea hadn't crossed her mind, but it could very well be true. Abruptly, she pulled her hands away from the man on the bed. Dean protested such a suggestion, almost vehemently, and tried to cut through the binds with his knife. Tracee quickly stilled his hand. Intense green eyes stared back at her. "We have to be sure," she told him. For a moment, he merely stared. Then he sighed through his nose and nodded.

Sam pulled out a flask filled with holy water. His movements were slowly, clearly hesitant to find out if his father was indeed possessed. However, he finally began dousing the man with the holy water. There was no sizzling or burning. The water did nothing to John. The man groaned and moved his head, apparently coming out of his unconscious state. "Sam…?" he questioned, groggily. He lifted his head, but only by a couple inches. "Why are you splashing water on me?" A relieved chuckle left Sam's mouth.

"Dad, are you okay?" Dean asked.

"… They've been drugging me," John replied slowly. He sighed heavily, and then relaxed again. "Where's the Colt?" Had the situation not be as it was, Tracee would have rolled her eyes. Always with the guns with this family. Sam was the one to answer that the weapon was safe. "Good boys…" John whispered. "Good boys…" Tracee frowned, and then helped Dean free the lethargic man. Sam came forward, taking her position to lift his father from the bed. Dean got the other side, and together the two began walking him towards the door.

Tracee moved in front of them, heading for the front door. However, the door opened itself, revealing a fireman. He wielded an axe in both hands and he focused black eyes on them. Another demon. Fun times. The Slayer breathed in deeply, preparing to throw herself at the sudden obstacle. "No, Tracee!" Sam shouted, stopping her. "Let's go back!"

"Back! Back!" Dean agreed. Groaning in displeasure—she could take just one demon on her own—Tracee moved backwards with them and shut the door to the bedroom. She sprang back just the sharp end of the axe came through the door, splintering the wood. Definitely a 'Here's Johnny' moment Dean would have remarked on if he wasn't so busy worrying about their escape. Tracee turned, making a grab for the salt canister in the duffle bag Sam carried. She dropped low, shaking out the salt to create a line over the threshold. "Let's go!" Dean urged, already out of the window.

Sam and she followed the command, lowering themselves on the metal fire escape. The irony was not lost on her. She shut the window, and then quickly emptied out the rest of the canister by making another line on the window sill. The three of them made their way down the escape, Sam helping his father along because John was still unsteady on his feet. Tracee was the last one to drop down onto the sidewalk. Dean went ahead to make sure the coast was clear. The girl turned around just in time to see the older brother being shoved to the ground.

Eyes wide, she watched as a bald man in a mechanic uniform straddle Dean and pelt hard punches to his face. "Dean!" Sam left her side, running to his brother's aid. He kicked at the man's face, but it did nothing. Obviously demonic, the man backhanded Sam across the face, causing him to go flying at the windshield of a nearby car. Paying the younger Winchester no mind, the demon went back to pummeling Dean. Choking on a gasp herself, Tracee let the past hurt fade from her mind. The pain of Dean's previous words no longer mattered. The only thing that mattered now was his  _life_.

Snarling, the Slayer lunged forward, tackling the demon and pushing him off the older brother. They rolled on the ground until she gained the upper hand and stayed on top. No remorse, she grabbed the demon's head and twisted hard. The pop and snap nearly overwhelmed the thundering of her own heart. She had killed again. Seconds later, black smoke erupted from the man's mouth and nose. The Slayer could feel and see the demonic presence leave its host before evaporating into thin air. The man laid dead underneath her without the demon's support, and she felt nothing other than relief.

"Dean…!" Tracee hurriedly stood up and moved towards the fallen brother. He groaned in pain as she pulled him up. The demon had done a number on his face. Blood slid out of his mouth, nose, and even his forehead. Ears, too. Time would reveal ugly bruises, but at least Dean hadn't been killed by the punches. "Come on, Dean! You going to let a bitch punk you like this? Let's go!"

He held on to her small frame, grimacing and stumbling with her towards John. "S-Sammy…" Dean mumbled. Tracee maneuvered his arm around her shoulder and looked back at the youngest. Sam was staring hard at the dead body she had left behind. Gritting her teeth, she called him over. Seemingly breaking out of his thoughts, Sam jolted back to reality, and then hurried towards them. "G-Go… Go! We gotta go!" Not needing to be told twice, Tracee waited for Sam to pick up his father before following after, nearly dragging Dean to keep up. Still, her thoughts darkened as the four of them fled the scene.

She hadn't been able to understand Sam's reaction.

 

0-0

 

Everything hurt. Only his face had come under attack, but his entire body felt the ache. Dean winced as he touched his swollen face. It felt like he had drunkenly got into a fight with a goddamn train. Hours later, night had come, and the four of them had been holed up in some abandoned cabin. Sam had driven them as far away from the apartment complex as he could. He would have driven longer had Dean not thrown up from the dizzying car ride. He shook his head, slightly mortified that he had gotten beat down like that. Not to mention, he could barely see out of his left eye. Come morning, the aches would be worse. He might not even be able to move. For now, all he could do was try to stare out the window in search of any odd movement in the dark.

Sam was somewhere else, tending to their drugged father. Tracee kept herself busying by salting all the possible entrances. She had been quiet the whole time. She hadn't even made a peep when he had lost his stomach all over her pants. Dean glanced at her, watching as she shook out salt from a plastic jug. She had switched clothes while she had been outside, getting more salt. The tiny tank obviously had something heavy on her mind.

Sighing deeply, Dean opened his mouth to catch her attention, but was interrupted by Sam coming into the room. He turned to face his brother, questioning the status of their dad. "He's good…" Sam replied. "Just needs rest, I guess. Whatever they drugged him with seems to be wearing off now."

"Good," Dean responded. "What about you?"

"I'm fine," he answered with a shrug. His eyes glanced in Tracee's direction. The girl had stopped her busying act of salting pretty much  _everything_ , but hadn't turned to face them. "Are… Are you okay, Tracee?" Sam asked, stepping closer to her. She went rigid at his nearness. "You haven't…" Finally, she turned, but her line of sight was on the floor. "You haven't gotten looked at yet." The blood on her cheek hadn't been wiped off yet, so that probably was what Sam had been referring to. Underneath the caked blood, she was probably already healed.

"I'm fine," she muttered, rubbing at her cheek with the back of her hand. Because of the action, Dean saw the cuts in her palm. "Do you feel any better, Dean?" At her question, he pursed his lips. He felt awkward. He had been feeling it since their argument. To have her show concern for him despite the way he had lashed out at her made him feel even worse.

" _Nah_ , this is nothing," he told her. Tracee made a face. Dean sighed heavily. "I'll fight another day," he amended. She seemed to take that answer easier than the first. The tank frowned, and then averted her stare to the floor again. Dean frowned, too, not wanting to take this awkward atmosphere anymore. They had both said some pretty messed up things, but it was time to get over it. She had just saved his life for crying out loud. He missed being able to easily talk to her. Now that John had been rescue, the air should be clear now, right? It's not like he wanted her to leave. "Hey,  _uh_ …" Dean fiddled with the damp rag in his hands. "Trace, you,  _uh_ …" She looked his way again. He felt even more nervous. A reluctant chuckle burst free from his mouth. "You,  _um_ … saved my ass back there, didn't you?"

"Of course, I did," Tracee replied. "Why wouldn't I?"

"I don't know," Dean shrugged. He knew why. "Maybe because I haven't been the… nicest guy to you lately?"

"…  _Shyeah_ , you've definitely been an asshole," Tracee agreed with nod.

"Man, Trace, I'm  _trying_  to apologize here!"

Instead of snapping back at him, as he expected, a small grin broke out on her face. Both amused and relieved. Recognizing it, Dean relaxed as an easy smile came to his face. "I'm sorry, too… Before… I didn't mean it," Tracee admitted. "So, I'm sorry… But, Dean… I want you to know that no matter what's going on between us—whether we're fighting or not—if your life is on the line, I'm not going to hesitate. Not for a second. You mean more to me than a disagreement. Come Hell or high water, I am your Slayer. And I mean that."

Tracee's declarations always left him feeling embarrassed. He had never come across a person so open to admitting their most intimate feelings. Whether verbal or physical, she never held back on affection. Just as passionate, she could defend. Just as passionate, she could dish out the anger, too. Dean felt really bad about causing that anger. She probably felt it, too, but was so willing to 'take it' because she understood. " _Aw_ , shucks, Trace…" he exclaimed, mouth stretching into a grin. "You making me blush!" She rolled her eyes, feigning annoyance. "Same here, though. If it was you or Sam or dad, I wouldn't hesitate either."

She scoffed, moving closer. "Now you're making  _me_  blush," she muttered. Her arms opened and wrapped around him. Dean effortlessly returned the hug, squeezing the girl in reassurance. It hurt like hell, but he buried his face in her shoulder.

The 'disagreement' had been trivialized for the moment, but it had been a fight he never wanted to have again. And he… understood now. He understood her. Tracee didn't know John. She wasn't the type to give it her all—not for a stranger. Had it have been himself or Sam, she probably would have fought until bodies surrounded her. She—the Slayer in her—was scary enough for that image to be  _her all_. And Dean had to accept that. He  _would_  accept that.

Slowly, he released the tiny tank, and her arms fell away from him, too. "I meant it," she murmured. "I am willing to do things that are probably frowned upon." She stepped away from him, nails reaching to scratch her neck. "So tell me right now if that makes you uneasy. Uncertainty is not something I like having."

"What are you talking about, Trace?"

"… I  _killed_  him. Whoever that demon possessed to beat you," she explained. "Not only him. I killed the one with Megara. I would have killed her, too. No hesitation. Because they are threats to my life. And yours..." Her eyes looked in Sam's direction. Oh. Dean, himself, didn't have a problem with it. One some level, Tracee and he had similar mentalities when the people they cared about was under fire. He understood, but Sam… kind-hearted, there's always another way, wouldn't hurt an innocent fly, Sam might see things differently.

His brother dipped his chin and shut his eyes. Dean looked back and forth between the two. Sam must have been thinking hard about it. Not just the act of killing itself, but the lack of sympathy, too. Tracee was confessing that she would kill for them like it was a cold-hard fact. An undeniable truth. As much as his brother liked the Slayer, he had to have  _some_  reservations with her willingness to, well,  _slay_.

At Sam's lack of response, Tracee dropped her gaze to the floor. Her nails dug into the skin of her neck and a visibly frowned worked its way onto her face. Sam frowned, too, shifting his head to the right and looking at a corner of the room that his girlfriend didn't occupy. Dean grimaced, suddenly feeling like disappearing. This didn't seem like the type of atmosphere that he needed to be a part of.

Fortunately, he was saved from thinking of a witty line to defuse the situation. John Winchester came into the room, gaining their attention. "You did what you had to do," he said. "No one is going to blame you for that. You saved Dean. That's all that matters."

"Somehow hearing it from  _you_  is a bit…" Tracee muttered under her breath. Because Dean was so close, he heard her and swiped at her. The tiny tank stuck her lower lip out, but did not retaliate. She merely crossed her arms. Rolling his eyes, Dean reached for her again, rag in his hand roughing wiping against her bloody cheek. "Should you be up and about, Poppa-Winchester?" Tracee questioned in a louder tone. She stepped away from Dean and swatted at his hand. "I imagine being drugged will have negative after effects."

"No, I'm fine. Thanks for worrying,"

" _Hm_ …" Tracee hummed noncommittally. Watching her interact with John made Dean realize just how much she was indifferent to other people. Because he could tell that she hadn't been 'worrying.' She had merely remarked on his condition. If she truly had been worried, she would have fretted over him. Nagged even. It was actually pretty surprising that she hadn't attempted to nurse Dean. Then again, at the time, they had still been awkward around each other. Still, maybe she would come around the longer she spent time with John. Hunting this demon was probably going to take a lot of time and effort, after all. By the end of… maybe she would finally  _know_  his name.

Suddenly, the lights began flickering. Dean could hear the wind blowing harshly. He stood from the table, instantly on alert. It had been quiet all night. A storm hadn't been on the forecast. "It found us," John spoke up, heading towards the window. He looked out into the night. "It's here." Hearing the conviction in his father's voice caused a panic to surge through him. How…? Sam couldn't've picked a more out of the way place to hole up.

"The Demon?" his brother murmured, unsure.

"Sam, lines of salt in front of every window. Every door," John commanded.

"Tracee already did it," Sam replied.

"Well, check them then," John retorted.

" _Uh_ , I was  _thorough_ ," Tracee spoke up, voice laced in British. Not heavy just yet, but Dean could tell that she was getting worked up. She didn't take kindly to misplaced criticism.

"Look, Tracee, we don't have much time," his dad told her, like he was speaking to a mere child. "We have to make sure all the entrances are covered." The tank huffed, but said nothing more. "Sam, go…!" Dean narrowed his eyes as his brother hesitantly took over to look over Tracee's work. He didn't know why, but he suddenly had a weird feeling. Something wasn't right, and the nagging feeling had nothing to do with the approach of the Big Bad. "Dean, you got the gun?"

At being called out, Dean snapped back to reality. He did not, in fact, have the gun. As he had told Sam and Tracee earlier, he had not brought the gun to rescue their father. Wouldn't have done much good, anyway, since he had fallen victim to a brutal beat down. "I've got it," Tracee answered. She uncrossed her arms and reached behind her. She lifted her denim jacket and pulled the Colt from the back of her jeans. "I took it from the trunk earlier."

"Give it to me," John ordered.

"Dad, Sam tried to shoot the Demon in Salvation," Dean stated. "It vanished."

"This is me. I won't miss," he replied. "Now, the gun. Hurry, Tracee!" Expectedly, the tiny tank scowled, but lifted the gun to hand it over. Again, the same uneasy feeling cam over him. Without his mind telling him to, Dean grabbed Tracee's wrist, stopping her from giving the Colt away. "Son, please," John said, voice tinged with desperation. Just enough to fool him. Gritting his teeth, he ignored the questioning look from Tracee and focused on his father's outstretched hand. No. It couldn't be… could it?

Dean took several steps back, pushing Tracee behind him. She stumbled, but didn't protest the movements. "He wouldn't use her name," he muttered to himself. His dad and Tracee were worlds apart, but they were similar in their approach to new people. The girl was largely apathetic towards everyone. She didn't bother to remember names because she could care less. Hence why she generally said the wrong name. John, the lone wolf that he was, hardly used a person's name. Unless that person had proved themselves in some way or another. With how the two of them were, he wouldn't be calling her by name. He couldn't have formed that much respect towards her yet.

With that thought in mind, Dean took the gun from Tracee and aimed it at his father's body. For what it was worth, the surprise seemed real. "What are you doing, Dean? Give me that gun," it demanded. Swallowing hard, the gun was cocked, ready to fire at any moment. He felt the rapid beat of his heart as his mind came to the unpleasant resolve.

"You're not my dad," Dean acknowledged.

"Dean, it's me," it turned to face them.

"I know my dad better than anyone. And you ain't him!"

"What the hell's gotten into you?!"

"I could ask you the same thing!" Dean kept the gun on his father's body. His insides rattled, but his hand remained steady. "You stay right over there." Tracee moved, standing at his side. Her body was tensed, ready for a fight. She believed him. No questions asked, she backed him up completely. Then Sam came into the room. Although, Dean didn't take his eyes off the imposter, he could feel the startled eyes of his brother, darting back and forth at the scene he had stumbled into. "He's different," Dean explained. "I think he's possessed. I think he's been possessed since we rescued him."

"It… would explain his sudden recovery from being drugged," Tracee muttered.

"Don't listen to them, Sammy!" it said.

"… H-How do you know?" Sam asked.

"I-I just do, alright?!" Dean retorted. "It's  _not_  dad!"

"Sam, you wanna kill this demon, you've got to trust me," the imposter said. Dean glanced at his brother to see that he was looking back and forth between them, completely unsure on who to side with. His father, the commander. Or his brother, his fellow soldier. Dean glared hard at the demon wearing his father's skin. He absolutely hated that Sam had to choose. He hated that a part of him wanted Sam to choose the opposing force. If only to convince him that he had been wrong and that this thing in front of him  _was_  their dad. A part of him wanted to be wrong about this. But most of him knew already. "Sam…?"

"No," he whispered, finally making up his mind. He slowly moved to Dean's side with a shake of his head. "No." The incredible shock on his dad's face seemed so real, but Dean could not falter now. With his brother and Tracee by his side, he could not falter. The imposter frowned deeply.

"Fine," it said. "If you're both so sure. Go ahead.  _Kill_  me."

"Kill you…?" Dean repeated. He let out a chuckle without humor. " _Nah_. Don't need to go that far,  _pops_." He gestured with his head and Tracee let out a similar chuckle.

"I thought you'd never ask," she said, making a show of cracking her knuckles. "I've been wanting to knock him out for a while." Dean almost rolled his eyes at her enthusiasm. " _Deus_ …!" Tracee continued in Latin. To his confusion, his father's body didn't convulse wildly like the other times he had seen it. Barely even flinched. It just shut his eyes as the tiny tank approached. When its eyes opened, they weren't black, but an ugly yellow. Something was wrong.

"Trace, wait…!"

It was too late. She was too close. Quicker than a blink, she was grabbed by her throat and lifted effortlessly in the air. Panicking, Dean could only suck in a sharp breath before he was thrown backwards by a simple look in his direction. His back slammed hard against the wall, and the Colt fell from his hand to the floor. Dean struggled with all his might, but he could break free. He watched helplessly as his brother was treated in the same manner.

"What a pain in the ass this has been," it said, lowering himself to pick up the discarded gun. He still had a firm grip on Tracee's throat. She struggled uselessly against him. Clicking its tongue, he snapped his head, using his power to pin her to another wall. She gasped and coughed. That bastard. He had been  _choking_  her. The yellow-eyed demon smirked, thoroughly examining the gun. It used both hands, seemingly admiring it.

"You're it… You're the Demon," Sam stated, sounding like he, too, was struggling against invisible binds. "B-But the holy water…"

"You think something like that works on something like  _me_?" it asked, taking its eyes off the gun. The way it gloated, using John's voice… Dean clenched his teeth so hard, the action shot pain to his brain. "Yes. I'm the Demon—with a capital D." Its yellow eyes shifted to Tracee. She glared back, gnashing her teeth just as hard. "And  _you_ … I'll enjoy my time with you."

"Don't you touch her!" Sam nearly snarled. "I'll  _kill_  you!"

"Oh, that'll be a neat trick," it remarked. "In fact, here…" It placed the gun on the table. "Make the gun float to you there,  _psychic boy_." Sam looked down at the weapon, but quickly looked back at the demon. Chuckling, it hadn't noticed Dean's look of confusion. "Well, this is fun. I could have killed you all a hundred times today, but this… This is worth the wait." It finally looked his way and smiled, completely pleased with itself. "Your dad—he's in here with me, trapped inside his own meat suit. He says 'hi' by the way." Dean schooled his features, trying hard not to show the utter fury he felt. "He's gonna rip you apart." It chuckled again. "He's gonna taste the iron in your blood."

"Let him go! Let him go or I swear to God-"

"What?" it asked, coolly. "What are you and  _God_  gonna do?" Not having an answer, Dean kept quiet. Honestly, he couldn't believe that he had invoked such useless name in the first place. It wasn't as though he believed in anything to do with heaven, anyway. "You see as far as I'm concerned… This is justice."

" _Justice_ …?!" Tracee scoffed. "Are  _all_  smoke demons this melodramatic or just the ones in charge?"

"Look at you," it said, mockingly teasing. It slowly made its way over to Tracee. To her credit, she didn't flinch. "Knows who's the boss, and yet still trying to provoke me. Well, I have news for you, little lamb… I'm already provoked. You know that exorcism of yours? That was my  _daughter_."

"Who, Meg?" Dean blurted in disbelief.

"And the one at the warehouse? That was my boy," its attention remained focused on Tracee. "You understand, little lamb? You destroyed my children. How would you feel if I killed  _your_  family?" Her expression darkened and twisted into pure rage. The demon chuckled again, merely amused. Dean, however, had seen that look before. She had attempted to rip the head off the Shtriga's body. With her bare hands.

"Go ahead. Make that attempt," she hissed in a whisper. "But let me make something perfectly clear to you,  _Capital D_ … I will not stop until your entire species is  _gone_. I will make sure each and every one of you  _fear_  crossing over to this plane of existence. And that is  _nothing_  compared to what I will do to  _you_."

" _Damn, Trace, you scary!"_  Dean grimaced. He had gotten chills from the threat. He looked over to his brother to see his reaction. To his surprise, Sam was looking down, completely red in the face. He looked uncomfortable. For the  _wrong_  reason.  _"You've gotta be kidding me."_  If he could, Dean would have shook his head. They were so  _gross_.

" _Heh_ … John is right," the demon replied. "You  _are_  ballsy. Hell, had things been different, I might have wanted you for my plans."

"Plans?! What plans?!" Sam demanded to know, apparently over his wild imagination. Dean had to stop himself from rolling his eyes again. The demon turned towards him, walking towards his tense form with an eerie grin.

"My plans for  _you_ , Sammy," it said. "You… and all the children like you. You see that's why I killed pretty little Jess. She got in the way. Would have ruined so much… so she had to go."

"You son of a bitch!" Sam growled.

" _Ooh_ , still sensitive about that, are we? Wonder what the  _new_  girlfriend thinks about that?" It practically slid back over to Tracee. "Did you know your boy toy was gonna propose to that little minx? Went shopping for rings and everything."

"Spare me," Tracee said, making a show of rolling her eyes.

"Listen—you mind getting this over with?" Dean interrupted before the demon could retort. He could see that Tracee was trying to provoke it, but it already had a grudge against her. She could be killed for her sass. Just for a distraction tactic, he was sure. Dean couldn't let that happen. If she died… that would be a form of shit hitting the fan. His brother would not survive two separate occasions of heartbreak. "I  _really_  can't stand the evil soliloquy bit."

"Funny, but that's all part of your M.O., isn't it? Mask all that nasty pain. Mask the truth…" Dean's attempt at diverting its attention worked like a charm. The demon sauntered over to him, obviously prepared to continue his monologue. As Tracee liked to say, bad guys just couldn't resist it. "You know, you fight and fight for this family, but the truth is they don't need you." It felt like he had just gotten the taste knocked out of him. "Not like you need them," it continued. Dean pressed his lips into a thin line, wondering how the hell this bastard could possibly know about well-hidden insecurities. "Sam-" It gestured towards the younger Winchester with a tilt of its head. "-He's clearly the favorite. Even when they fight, it's more concern than John's  _ever_  shown you."

"Yeah, and I bet you're  _real_  proud of your kids, too, huh?" Dean quipped. Honestly, he felt some type of way. John and Sam—they were so independent. They could both split and be fine. But himself—by himself—he had barely lasted a few days. Hell,  _hours_. Screw this demon. It shouldn't be able to prey on his fears like this. "Oh. That's right. I forgot.  _I_  gave the order to destroy them. They got  _wasted_."

And suddenly everything  _ **hurt**_.

The pain of it all caused him to shout out, gasping for air. It felt like a fist had gotten inside of him and was ripping and crushing vital organs. Like they were being put in a blender. He could barely make out Sam and Tracee shouting his name over the sound of blood filling his ears. He choked out, feeling bile rise to his throat. Or maybe that was blood. He seemed to be drooling out a dark red liquid. Crap. That probably wasn't good. The intensity of the pain caused dark spots, and pretty soon, he wasn't able to see clearly.

Then he heard the crack of a gun going off. Finally. Still, unable to control his body, Dean didn't brace himself for the impact of the floor. He gagged and spit out blood, squeezing his eyes shut. It did little to stop the excruciating linger of his insides turning to mush. "Dean…!" Tracee's voice neared him. He felt her hand on his cheek. He shivered, suddenly feeling cold. "Oh my God! Oh my God! Oh my God! Dean!" Groaning, he tried to sit up, but she held him down.

"Oh, God, Dean!" Sam approached, too, crouching beside her with the Colt in his hand. "You've lost a lot of blood!"

"Thank you, Captain," Dean said through clenched teeth. He still couldn't see well at all. The two of them appeared like smudges on an oil painting. "Why'd you t-take so lo-long to g-go psychic, damn it?!"

"Well, excuse me for being distracted by your  _blood_!" Sam retorted hotly. "I was concentrating until you had to go and mention his kids being wasted! You talk about me sacrificing myself, and then go and do the same damn shit!"

"What the  _fuck_  you mean by  _sacrifice_?!" Tracee went zero to British in an instant. " _Both_  of you?!"

"Not really the time, Trace!" Dean grunted, trying to get his breathing under control. "Dad… Where's dad?"

"He's fine, he's fine," Sam answered. "Just shot him in the leg."

" _Just_ …? Wonderful," he muttered sarcastically. "Go  _check_  on him!"

He could hear his brother huff a bit, but did as he had been told. Dean tried to relax, biting back another grunt. He was going to feel like shit come morning. "Sammy! It's still alive! It's inside me—I can feel it!" The voice of his dad rang out loud and clear. Double crap. They had all been hoping a simple graze of the bullet would do the trick. "You shoot me," John ordered. Dean's world spun. He almost gagged on vomit now. Where had this sacrifice complex come from with this family? Sure, Dean, himself, was part of the problem, but for crying out loud…! "You shoot me! You shoot me in the heart, son! Do it now!" Dean heard the gun cock. This could not be happening.

"Don't you do it, Sam!" he protested. "Don't you do it!"

"You gotta hurry!" John shouted, trying to be louder. "I can't hold on much longer! You shoot me, son!  _Shoot_  me!" Again, Dean tried to protest, but his words were mere mumbles in comparison to his father's shouts. "Son, I'm begging you! We can end this here and now! Sammy…! You do this!" Seconds passed, but they were long nail-biting seconds. Then he heard John screaming. Dean forced his eyes open to see a thick black smog spewing from John's mouth. It converged at the ceiling before disappearing beneath the floorboards, leaving his father panting, but alive.

Dean sighed, but it was as squelchy as his lungs. He coughed again, ejecting blood. He was leaking all over and his eyesight was becoming blurry again. His body shook, pain spreading to various parts. Pretty soon, he wouldn't be able to keep conscious. "Come on, Dean! We're leaving!" Tracee, he assumed, lifted him from the floor. "Samuel, grab Poppa-Winchester and let's go!"

His body was jostled, but there was nothing he could do now. Every time he opened his mouth, blood spilled. Trying to hold back tears, Dean loosely gripped Tracee's shirt as she carried him out of the abandoned cabin. His heavy pants had faded, but he still had trouble breathing. All the while, Tracee continued to whisper reassurances to him. Felt like lies, but he was in no position to deny it. Dean shut his eyes again. The touch of the seat, followed by the slamming of car doors told him that they were all in the Impala. Other than that, he was beginning to feel numb. The familiar rumble of the engine hadn't been enough to lift his spirits. The car's gears were shifted and before long, they were in motion.

"Just hold on," he heard Sam. "The nearest hospital is about ten minutes away."

"I'm surprised at you, Sammy," John muttered. His tone was both disappointed and accusing. "Why didn't you kill it? I thought we saw eye-to-eye on this. Killing this demon comes first—before me, before  _everything_."

"… No, sir, not before everything," Sam said. "It's… It's not worth dying over." It hurt to smile. At least, his brother seemed to be learning that sacrifice wasn't the answer. "Look—we've still got the Colt. We've got two bullets left. We just have to start over, alright? I mean, we already found the Demon once befo-" Sammy didn't get to finish his sentence. Behind Dean's eyes, a searing golden light exploded. Then he was consumed by it. He welcomed the bittersweet oblivion.

 

0-0

 

In two different parts of the country, far from where a semi-truck brutally crashed into an unsuspecting car, two individuals shot out of their slumber. Eyes wide open and lips parted, they gasped for air. With tears in their eyes, they were blinded by the white light that surged within them. They were overwhelmed. They were in pain. They were  _dying_. Just as they thought death was near, they were completely and utterly consumed by golden light. Baring theirs very souls, they welcomed the rush of sweet oblivion. Unaware, three individuals neared the end. Then they breathed again, reborn and grasping for connection. Their essences reached out, frantically searching, but was impeded by distance.

"It begins anew." The whisper echoed through the still of night. "And this time... The Destoyers will not become."

"Such as they are... The Champions will rise as they should have."

With that said, two higher beings watched as their plans began to unfold.

0-0

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am not planning on separating seasons into individual stories, so expect the next chapter to be the start of season two. Eventually, I might separate, but for now, this particular work will have many, many chapters.


	21. Dying & Rebirth

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The start of season two...

 

Dean was, for lack of a better word, pouting. Waking up, confused and alone, had been weird. Waking up in a hospital and realizing that no one could hear or see him had caused a minor freak out. Realizing he hadn't actually woken up at all caused his current state. He had stared at his body for a full minute before the realization had come. Then he had begun pacing in disbelief, telling himself over and over again that this had to be a dream, and that he would wake up soon. Ten minutes later, and plenty of pinches in between, Dean had come to terms with his out of body appearance. The acceptance hadn't stop him from pouting in the corner of the room, though.

Seriously, why hadn't anyone come to check on him yet? What happened to the rest of them after the crash? Maybe they were laid up somewhere in the hospital, too. If all three of them were hurt that badly… Crap, he didn't want to think about it. Dean crossed his arms, leaning against the wall. His eyes, once again, darted over to his unconscious body. Dressed in patient scrubs with a tube down his throat. What a way to go. Well, at least his ass wasn't out in the open. Glowering, Dean almost didn't notice his brother step into the room. When he did, he took in a sharp breath.

A sight for sore eye he was, even with his face scratched up. It wasn't worse than the ugly bruises on his own face, that's for sure. "Sammy…!" Dean hurried over to his brother, not stopping himself from grinning. "You look good… considering." He chuckled lightly, but his brother ignored him. Dean frowned as Sam stepped closer to the hospital bed. "Man, tell me you can hear me…" No response to him at all. Sam only mumbled something under his breath and shook his head. "How's dad? And Trace? Are they okay?" All of his questions went unheard. "Come on! You're the psychic—give me some ghost whispering or something!"

"Your father's awake." A new voice caused Dean to turn his attention to the door. A man—probably a doctor—stood in the threshold. Sam turned to face the new arrival. "You can go see him if you like."

"Oh, thank God!" Dean sighed in relief.

Good news, finally. He shifted his gaze to his brother, but Sam didn't seem to share the same relief. The youngest Winchester frowned and looked down at the floor for a moment. "Doc, what about my brother? And my girlfriend?" he questioned. Dean looked back at the doctor, hoping for more good news. The man's expression hadn't changed, so maybe…?

"They both sustained pretty serious injuries," he began. "Ms. Noland's legs took the worse of the damage. The bones were broken and her nervous system was affected. At the moment, she is not responding to outside stimuli. Once she wakes up, we can give her a better assessment, but… in my experience, I don't believe she will be using her legs for quite a while. Maybe not ever." Dean obnoxiously scoffed. Clearly, this guy had never examined a Slayer before. Get some food in the tiny tank, and she would be good as new. "She will live, though."

"And Dean…?" Sam obviously wasn't going to be happy until he heard that all of them were going to be alright.

"Your brother, on the other hand-" That was not a good start. "-suffered blood loss and contusions to his liver and kidney. In fact, most of his internal organs are severely bruised. I've never seen anything like it—definitely not from a car crash. We've done all we can to stop the internal bleeding. It will take time, but eventually he will heal. It's the head trauma that I'm worried about. There's early signs of cerebral edema." Dean watched enough medical dramas to know what the hell that meant. Swelling in his brain…? Not good. He was pretty sure it was life threatening.

"Well, what can we do?" Sam asked.

"We won't know his full condition until he wakes up," the doctor replied. " _If_  he wakes up."

" _If_ …?!" An incredulous voice from the hallway caused all three men to turn. There, sitting in a wheelchair, was the tiny tank herself. Like him, she wore the same attire, though the white shirt seemed a little big on her. With her fingers gripping the top of the wheels, Tracee appeared hella angry. Her brown eyes were sharp and focused on the giver of bad news. With her hair pulled back in a ponytail, he could clearly see the cuts on her face and neck. She had visible bruising as well. In her lap, there was a tanned bucket. Inside the bucket were her clothes inside a large plastic bag. Maybe her shoes were in there, too. "Doctor, there's no  _if_  about it. Dean  _will_  wake up."

"Ms. Noland… I-" he seemed flabbergasted. "We weren't expecting you to wake up until tomorrow."

"I take lots of vitamins," Tracee countered testily. "Now back to Dean—what the hell makes you think he doesn't have a chance of waking?"

The doctor cleared his throat. "I have to be honest," he said. "Most people with this degree of injury wouldn't have survived this long. He's fighting very hard. But you need to have realistic expectations. He might not make it through this." The anger drained from Tracee's face and in its place was horrified shock. Sam didn't look any better at the news. His brother clenched his jaw and turned unreadable eyes to the corner of the room.

"Come on, Sam! Go find some hoodoo priest to lay some mojo on me," Dean told him. "I'll be fine!" The attempt had reassurance went right over his brother's head. "Sam…!" Growing frustrated, he, again, realized that no one could actually hear him. Tracee rolled into the room just as the doctor walked out. Desperate, he moved towards her, dropping down to his knee beside her wheelchair. "Hey, Trace…! You're kinda psychic, too, right? You can sense me, at least,  _right_?"

She didn't acknowledge him at all. Tracee lifted her left hand and carefully intertwined her fingers with Sam's right. His brother took in a shaky breath. "Tracee, I-" He swallowed hard, gripping her hand. Sam shook his head and squeezed his eyes shut. "No, this isn't it. This can't—if the doctors can't do anything, then  _I_  will. I'll just… find some hoodoo priest and lay some mojo on him. Dean choked out a laugh. Tracee gave the younger brother a crooked half-smile before she shifted her attention to the unconscious body. "I'm gonna go tell dad."

"I think I'll stay," Tracee said.

"Are you sure?" Sam asked. Slowly, the tiny tank nodded her head. "Alright… Dad's room is just down the hall—three rooms down." Tracee nodded again. Sam lowered himself to kiss the side of her forehead. "I'll be back soon." She hummed a bit. With a sigh, Sam released her hand, and then turned to head out. Dean moved to follow, but he halted for a moment.

"Trace, I'm gonna be fine," he told her, though she couldn't hear him. Again, Tracee hadn't acknowledged the words and hadn't turned her solemn gaze away from the hospital bed. Dean sighed heavily, and then continued on to catch up to his brother.

 

0-0

 

It was quiet. So bloody quiet. The sounds of medical equipment and conversations happening outside the room were all muffled to her. Muted even. The atmosphere was eerie and uncomfortable. Honestly, it chilled her to the bone. Hospitals weren't her favorite place to be, and with good reason. Over a decade later, and she couldn't escape the silence of a hospital, waiting for an inevitable outcome. Tracee remained in the wheelchair, quietly staring at the body of Dean Winchester. The only difference had to be that she had been allowed to be up close and personal to the dying. The joys of being an adult.

She shut her eyes for a moment, drawing in a slow breath. She hoped to God that it didn't happen again. Dean Winchester had become someone she could care about unequivocally. To lose him now…? It would be a cruel fate. Honestly, she didn't know what she would do after. Tracee didn't want to think of an after without Dean. Her eyes opened and drifted back to the rise and fall of his chest. It was hard to swallow, watching him slip away. If only he hadn't stolen that demon's attention. Shouldn't he have realized that no matter what torture that bastard inflicted, she would heal? It had been  _her_  job take whatever pain so that  _they_  wouldn't have to. She had failed, and now Dean would pay the price.

Tracee released a breath with a shudder. Oh, God… Her chest suddenly grew tight, and her eyes stung. She had failed. All this bloody power she possessed, but she couldn't save one of the people that mattered most? What was the  _point_  then? "Dean, you have to wake up," she murmured, gaze darting to his face. She shook her head. "I can't do this without both of you… I  _won't_  do this without both of you. So you've got to get up. We've got things to slay and people to save. We've got to hunt this yellowed-eyed bastard for everything he's done."

Expectedly, Dean didn't even twitch at her plea. Tracee sighed heavily and closed her eyes again. Her head tilted down as she mentally cursed the demon that had done this. It wasn't her demon to kill, but if she ever had a chance to get her hands on it, it would be torture before death. No question. Whatever Sam's reservations, she was certain he would agree to it if Dean didn't survive. He better survive.  _Please_  survive.

The sound of buzzing broke through her thoughts. Tracee blinked rapidly and swallowed. She breathed deeply to compose herself, and then shifted in her seat. Before leaving her own hospital room, she had grabbed her personal items. She hadn't planned on returning to that room if she could help it, so her clothes and shoes had been taken along for the ride to Dean's room. Clearing her throat, she opened the plastic container, and then sifted through her clothes.

Honestly, she had been surprise that her cell phone had made it through the crash. There were cracks, but the device still functioned properly. Grabbing a hold of the cell phone, she flipped it open, not bothering to read the screen. "Hello…?" she greeted, voice coming out far more tired than she had wanted to let on.

" _Tracee, you will not believe the night I had_ …!"

"Cassie…?"

" _Yeah, of course. Wait a minute… Wh-What's wrong_?"

She didn't know why, but hearing the sound of her best friend's voice, while her other best friend lied on his death bed, set her off somehow. The tears she had been holding back—desperately holding back—began pouring like a waterfall. Tracee tried her best to explain the situation through the tears, but she could only manage incoherent babbling. She could tell because through the loud sobbing, she could somewhat hear Cassie asking over and over again 'What's wrong?' in an increasingly frustrated tone of voice.

"C-Cass-Cassie…!" she blubbered. Through teary sight, she looked at Dean. "I don-don't know what to do! Dea-Dean's… Dean is…! He's  _hurt_ , Cassie! He's hurt real bad, and I-" Her sobs began choking her again. Straining, she coughed out the rest of her rambles. "We-We were in a car cra-crash… The doc-doctor said that… the-they don't know if he'll ever wake up! He's  _dying_!"

" _No… H-He can't_ …"

"He is… and I-I can't help him. I don't know what to do…" Tracee whimpered.

"…  _What hospital_?"

"What?"

" _What_   _hospital are you_ at _, Tracee_?!"

 

0-0

 

Sam had tried. He had tried so hard to calm down on his way back to the hospital. He tried breathing deeply. He tried thinking of more positive things, but nothing worked. His mind continuously drifted back to the items he carried in the duffel bag. Like a good little soldier, he had followed the order and had gotten the items on the list that his dad had given. But he had to hear from  _Bobby_  that the combination of items were  _not_  used to ward away demons. Admittedly, he was pretty upset about that, but the thing that caused his  _anger_  was more serious. His own father had lied to him. Again. When he hadn't  _needed_  to.

God—Sam thought his dad had gotten pass the deception, but apparently it would never happen. No matter what. No matter if his own sons talked to him about it. No matter if a stranger yelled at him for it. John Winchester was set in his ways, and absolutely nothing would stop his lone wolf mindset.

Scowling, Sam forced himself not to stomp into his dad's hospital room. He walked by the bed and went straight to the window. On second thought, maybe he should have went to Tracee first. She had a knack for calming him down. The younger Winchester gripped the strap of the bag as he shut his eyes. He attempted bringing her to mind, visualizing her pretty face on the chance that it would help. "You're quiet…" John remarked. The moment he had spoken had been the moment the chance had been lost. Sam breathed in through his nose before facing his father. He stepped forward, nearly slamming the bag on to the bed. His father had the nerve to look offended.

"You think I wouldn't find out?" he nearly growled. John's nerves of steel were amazing because his expression morphed into confusion as he asked what Sam could possibly be talking about. "That stuff from Bobby! You don't use it to ward off a demon—you use it to  _summon_  one!" John pursed his lips, closed his eyes, and sighed. All the confirmation that Sam needed. His anger spiked at the sight. "You're planning on bringing the demon  _here_ , aren't you? Having some  _stupid_. Macho. Showdown. Once again. By  _yourself_."

"I have a plan, Sam," John attempted to reassure him.

"That's exactly my point!" Sam shouted. " _You_  have a plan! Dean is  _dying_  and you have a plan all by yourself to go after this demon! You still don't trust me! After everything! But that's not my main concern!" It was, and it hurt, but he cared more about his brother's state than the trust of man with too many barriers. "You'd go off to kill this demon instead of trying to help your own son!"

"Don't you tell me how I feel!" John shouted back. "I am doing this  _for_  Dean!"

"No the fuck you're  _not_! You're not thinking about anyone but  _yourself_!" Sam yelled. "It's always been for yourself! Always! It's the same selfish obsession!"

"That's funny—I thought this was  _your_  obsession, too! This demon killed your mother, killed your girlfriend!" John jabbed a finger in his direction. "You  _begged_  me to be part of this hunt! Now, if you killed that damn thing when you had the chance, none of this would have happened!"

Sam physically stumbled back. Not at the bite of his accusation, but at the shock of the revelation. This man in front of him—his father—was the exact same man Sam had left behind years ago. This was the same argument. They had just been going around in circles this whole time. His father hadn't changed. His father was stuck in the past. Nothing could get through to him. Not yelling. Not reason. Not love. He would always be the same man—one who was more than willing to sacrifice himself for this hunt despite the people left behind.

Sam clenched his jaw tight, realizing that at some point, he had been just like John Winchester—hell bent on revenge for that thing that had murdered Jessica. And if he hadn't been  _just_  like him, then he had certainly been on the path to becoming the man in front of him. Looking at a mirror seemed hard. No wonder they always butted heads. Sam looked down at the floor for a moment before turning his gaze to his father.

"You know what, dad? I'm not going to keep doing this with you," he started. "You can't see anything beyond the past. I'm not going to waste my time regressing back to the past just to argue with you. Because I'm looking at the here and now. And right now, my brother is dying. My girlfriend is three doors down, more upset about the possibility of Dean's death than his own father." John opened his mouth, looking as though he might protest, but Sam gave him no time. "So go ahead and do whatever it is that you think you need to do. Alone. Like always. Get your revenge. Sacrifice yourself. Whatever it is, it's not gonna help Dean now, so I don't want any part of it. I guess we really are different, after all."

Not waiting for John's reaction, Sam turned and left the room. He felt horrible, but right now, there were more important things than the Demon. He couldn't keep focusing on a personal vendetta when the person he cared about most was fighting off death. Yes, he hated that Jessica's killer still breathed. Yes, he hated the Demon for taking away a mother's love before he had the chance to receive it—to really know and appreciate it like Dean had. But he couldn't let those reasons dictate the rest of his life. He couldn't let himself die over those reasons, not when there were other factors to live for. He couldn't become John Winchester.

Sam took in a deep breath, preparing to pick up the pace to Dean's room, but before he could, he was nearly knocked over by a gaggle of nurses, hurriedly making their way down the hall. He watched them, eyebrows furrowed as they veered to the left… and into his brother's room. A sharp gasp left his mouth as fear took hold of his insides. He quickly rushed forward. Just as he made it to the entrance of the room, Tracee was wheeled out and told to wait outside. Her expression pale and horrified. Eyes wide and rimmed in red, she stared into the room.

Hesitantly, Sam stood by her side and looked into the room as well. The doctor was frantically trying to revive his brother. A nurse continued to state that a pulse couldn't be found. His brother's heart monitor was at a flat-line. Sam strained to keep breathing, but his lungs weren't listening. "No…" he pleaded in a whisper. Not Dean. Please, not Dean. Through blurry eyes, he stared as shock after shock went into Dean's body, and yet the horrible sound of the monitor didn't change.

"No change," the doctor announced. "Starting CPR."

_I said get back…!_

Sam reared back, blinking in confusion. Had he just…? His eyes darted across the room, but there was nothing. But he could have sworn he just heard Dean shout. His voice had been muffled, like an echo, and angry. But it had been him, hadn't it? Before he could contemplate any further, the machine's tone changed. Sam focused on the people surrounding his brother. "We have a pulse," one of the nurses stated. He breathed out in relief as the woman continued speaking. His legs nearly gave out he was so relieved. Oh, God, this was the worst. Dean had come so close. He almost lost his brother.

"Oh my God… Oh my God," Tracee's voice caught his attention. Sam turned to see that her palms were covering her face as she whimpered out over and over again. Had it only taken a little over three months for her to care so much? Shakily, he dropped down to his knees in front of her wheelchair.

"Hey, hey, hey, it's okay," Sam assured her. He gently wrapped his fingers around her wrists and pulled her hands from her face. Her cheeks were wet with tears. He hurt to see her like this. In so much pain at the thought of losing Dean… "It's okay… It's gonna be okay," he whispered. Tracee sniffled and shut her eyes, trying to nod—trying hard to compose herself. Sam sighed, pressing his forehead against hers. "It's gonna be okay," he repeated, determined to convince her and himself. "We'll think of something. We're not losing him. Okay?"

"O-Okay," Tracee agreed. She sniffed several times before he felt her nod. "Okay."

Sam reared back, hands reaching up. His fingertips brushed against her cheeks, wiping at her tears. She sniffled once more before she opened her eyes. Finally, her breathing came under control again, and she stared back at him, appearing exhausted. He knew the feeling all too well. Tracee bit her lower lip, and then reached for his face. Her wet palms cupped his cheeks, and her thumbs caressed the skin under his eyes. Sam hadn't realized he had been crying, too. Swallowing hard, he squeezed his eyes shut. Tracee's arms wrapped around his neck, and he easily relaxed into her embrace.

Face buried in the crook her neck, he, wrapped his arms around her torso. Her warm touch had been exactly what he needed right now. That had been too close. He needed to figure out something, and he needed to do it quickly. Dean didn't have the luxury of time right now. Sam rubbed his nose back and forth against Tracee's skin, and breathed deeply. He just needed to calm down and think. Pinching his brow together, he remembered. "I heard him…" he murmured.

"You what…?" Tracee asked.

Sam slowly, and reluctantly, released his hold on his girlfriend. She did the same. "I think I heard Dean," he told her. "Like he was just out of eyeshot, or something. Right before the doctor started the CPR, I heard him yelling at something." Tracee scratched at her neck, appearing unsure.

"I didn't sense anything," she stated.

"Well… he's not dead, so maybe he's not a proper spirit," Sam said. "His body is still alive, so maybe that's why you can't sense him." Tracee nodded her head in understanding. "I think… I wanna try something. It might not work, but… it might get us closer to figuring out something." She nodded again in agreement. "I have to leave to pick it up, but I'll be quick."

"Be careful," she said.

"You, too." He pressed a quick kiss to her forehead, and then stood to his full height. Sam thought about going down the opposite way to report back to John, but… What would be the point in that? At the moment, he couldn't stand the sight of his father. He internally scoffed before moving towards the exit. Maybe he would attempt another conversation when he returned.  _After_  seeing if his idea worked or not.

 

0-0

 

The moment Sam and Tracee had started wiping at each other tears had been the moment Dean had decided to turn and walk away. One: it had been a private moment between a couple, and he hadn't needed to see it. Hadn't wanted to see it either. Two: it had made him a bit uneasy. Tracee had never cried before. He hadn't seen it. So to see her tears—an actual breakdown…? It had been alarming, totally out of character for her. Dean had known she cared, but… Well, he had expected anger—maybe she'd destroy a hospital wing or two in her rage—but tears had been completely unexpected.

So yeah, he had essentially run away. He still wasn't a talky-feely type of person like those two were, but he was sure they would have launched into talky-feely mode if he had stayed longer. Dean had something more important to do, anyway. He needed to find this spirit before it tried another attempt on his life. Dean quickly moved down the hallway. He looked in every room in search of the spirit. So far, he couldn't find it, but it was only a matter of time.

"Can't you see me?!"

A cry of panic caught his attention, stopping him in his tracks. Dean turned his head, eyes darting towards where the voice had come from. Normally, a cry in a hospital wouldn't put him on alert—not really. But the words of the cry had been too similar to his own after he had  _woke up_. The voice came again, more alarmed than before, demanding anyone to just talk to her. Similar, indeed. Dean headed towards the voice, noting the high pitch. Most likely, he was about to encounter a scared chick.

So he followed the sounds and came across, as expected, a woman, frantically going up the stairs, demanded people's attention. Her cries were useless. The people ignored her as though she hadn't been there. Dean ignored his initial impulse of getting the girl's attention and calming her down. Eventually, she would turn around and noticed that he was staring directly at her. It gave him the time to address a few things. He had been 'spirit hunter' in this building for more than a few hours now. Sure, he had kept to his floor, close to his room and hovering around his dad's room, but there were plenty of people in the hospital. Why had he suddenly heard from someone else in his predicament? Honestly, it was weird. Had no one else,  _in a hospital_ , been close to death?

Dean narrowed his eyes a bit as he watched the girl finally turn around, expression twisted in desperation. She had fair skin, pitch black hair, cut just above her shoulders, and bright grey eyes… maybe. He couldn't really see the color of her eyes from the bottom of the flight of stairs. She had pink pouty lips and a button nose. Definitely a cutie. The girl seemed to be in his age group. Like him, she wore patient scrubs, but the shirt she wore had obviously been made for a woman. Dean idly wondered why Tracee's shirt had been a plain t-shirt while this girl had buttons. Most of those buttons were undone, revealing a bit more of her chest.

The girl's eyes zeroed in on him. Her mouth dropped open as she continued to stare, clearly unsure on how to proceed. Dean had been nearly gawking at her, but hadn't tried to make contact. Maybe she thought her eyes were playing tricks on her? He should probably open his mouth and say something so she could relax. But he kept quiet, waiting for the girl to make the first move. He still wasn't sure about this whole situation, after all. No need to jump the gun without having, at least, most of the facts. Now was not the time to rely on luck.

The girl, still watching him, dropped down a step. "You…" she finally addressed him. "You can see me, can't you?" She came down a few more steps. "Tell me you can see me, please!" Dean finally nodded his head, responding to her. "Oh, thank God!" Clearly relieved, she moved forward until she joined him at the bottom of the flight of steps. Now that she was standing beside him, he noted that she was shorter than him. Maybe a little taller than Tracee. "What's happening to me?" she questioned. "Am… Am I  _dead_?"

Dean hadn't known how long this girl had been wandering the halls of the hospital, but judging from the sudden screaming, he guessed that it hadn't been long. Hell, no more than a couple of minutes. Not many people would jump to 'dead' that quickly, would they? Maybe if she had seen her body first, but her confusion at the situation squashed that idea. If she had seen her body, she wouldn't have been freaked out that people couldn't see her. Still, everyone was different in their reactions to certain things, so… he wasn't about to judge just yet.

"First things first," Dean said. "You should,  _uh_ , calm down. You know, take a second to breathe." The girl continued staring at him. The relief had left her eyes, and she seemed suck in a state of confusion. Dean stopped himself from sighing. Sam was way better at this. "Alright… What's your name?"

"T-Tessa…" she answered.

"Alright, Tessa, I don't know the answers to those questions," Dean told her. "It sorta depends on where you woke up. I might be able to answer some questions if you can show me." Tessa hesitantly nodded her head. "Let's go then."

Again, she nodded, and then turned on her heel. She quietly led him down the hallway, and Dean followed her. They walked in silence for a few moments before Tessa came to a stop outside a room. She looked inside and just stared, face devoid of any recognizable emotion. She was just blank. Dean came to stand beside her, gaze looking into the room as well. Seemingly, the girl's body lied in bed, hooked up to machines. There was another woman in the room, sitting at the side of the bed. The woman had the girl's hand clasped in her own hands.

"I don't understand," Tessa murmured. "I just came in for an appendectomy."

Dean was no doctor, but he knew that that particular surgery had a very low fatality rate. Too many medical dramas, probably. Tessa shouldn't be close to death from that type of surgery, should she? Was her situation really that similar to his even though they had been brought in under very different circumstances? Dean scoffed inwardly, wondering if he should have read more on astral projection rather than tossing that book over his shoulder, but like most of those old books, the contents had been boring as hell.

"It's just a dream, that's all," Tessa whispered as she shook her head. The action drew Dean's attention. The girl stepped forward, but then turned to face him. "This is just a very weird,  _unbelievably_  vivid dream."

Dean felt sympathy for the girl. He, himself, had run to the denial stage more times than he could remember before Sam had showed up to his room. So he knew what she might be feeling. "Tessa, this isn't a dream," he told her. "If it's anything like what's happening to me, we've become something like spirits, trapped until we cross over."

"Cross over…?" Tessa repeated. "You mean  _dying_? We're gonna to die?"

"Not necessarily," Dean answered. "We can hold on while our bodies get better. We do that, we can snap back and wake up."

The disbelief left her expression, and a look of contemplation took its place. That had been a quick transition, and Dean wasn't sure what to make of it just yet. Tessa averted her gaze elsewhere and made no comment to his assumption. It had been an assumption, or at the least a white lie. He believed that whatever was haunting the halls of this hospital was to blame for their predicament. Killing it was probably the most sure fire way of snapping them back in their bodies. But springing news of his world on her would probably be overwhelming, so he kept the knowledge of the ghosty bastard to himself.

Tessa sighed, heavy and quiet, and then walked away. With nothing better to do at the moment, Dean followed after her. The longer they walked, the less tense her shoulders appeared. When she had become completely relaxed, he stepped to her side and matched her pace. She swung her arms like she didn't have a care. He frowned and crossed his own arms. Something about this was nagging him, but he didn't know what just yet. "I gotta say, I'm impressed," he began. Tessa gave an inquisitive hum. "I mean,  _most_  people in your spot would be jello by now, but,  _uh_ , you're taking this pretty well. Maybe a little better than just about anyone."

"Don't get me wrong," Tessa said, turning to face him. Her eyes didn't met his, though.  _Hm_. "I was pretty freaked at first. But now, I don't know, maybe I'm dealing?"

"You're okay with dying?" Dean asked incredulously.

"No, of course not!" she responded, scoffing lightly. Again, she wouldn't look him in the eye. The nagging feeling grew stronger. Damn it—what was it? He wished the nagging could be a little less cryptic. "I just think… whatever's gonna happen is gonna happen. It's out of my control. It's just fate."

"Well, that's crap," Dean said, giving a scoff of his own. "You always have a choice. You can either roll over and die, or keep fighting no matter wha-" The beginnings of his rant were cut short by a couple of nurses running by. He tensed in anticipation and turned to watch the nurses hurriedly make their way down the hall he and Tessa had come from. This might be a chance to confront the thing that was going around sucking the life out of people.

"Dean, where are you going?" Tessa questioned.

"Just wait here!" he told her, and then took off in a sprint after the nurses. In the corner of his mind, the nagging had turned into a sharp jab, but he honestly didn't know why. Nor could he really think about it right now. Dean might have only one shot at this. He had to hurry and try saving someone.

He raced to the end of the hall. The nurses had gone into the last room on the left. Dean moved closer, hearing the flat-line of a heart monitor. Crap. Swallowing, he focused on the apparition hover above the bed. Its fingers brushed against the patient's face. Double crap. The patience was just a kid. "Get away from her!" he shouted, stepping closer. Before he could attempt to grab it, the apparition faded from view, leaving him to stand there, searching frantically. But it had disappeared completely. Gritting his teeth, Dean turned back towards the bed just in time to watch the doctor pull his fingers away from the girl's neck.

"Alright, let's call it," he said, gaze dropping in resignation.

"Time of death," one of the nurses began, looking at her watch. "5:11 P.M."

"At least she's not suffering anymore," another nurse soberly remarked.

Dean turned his attention back to the child, realization forming in his mind. Suffering. Death. Dying. This wasn't an angry spirit, going around and picking off the weak. This was a Reaper, doing its job. Triple crap. That meant he couldn't  _kill_  this thing. Even if he tried, he wouldn't be able to. Dean furiously rubbed at his forehead. Death was coming for him, and it wouldn't stop until its job was done.  _Crap_. Slowly, Dean turned, walking out of the room. He walked back to where he had left Tessa, but she seemingly disappeared.

He frowned, but he honestly didn't have the energy to go looking. He was going to die. She was going to die. This Reaper would take them both because that's what it had been created to do. Dean exhaled sharply as he moved. "I'm gonna die," he said out loud, voice going numb. Clenching his hands into fists, he headed in the direction of his room. No. He couldn't. He  _couldn't_! No way that this was how he died. No way that this was his time to go.  _No_.

Dean shuffled back to his room, going right through the closed door. Tracee was the only one in the room. She had moved her wheelchair to the left side of the bed. She sat back in the chair, eyes as exhausted as the rest of her body. She probably hadn't gotten any sleep. Same with Sam. Speaking of his brother, he wasn't anywhere in sight. Maybe talking to dad right now…? Dean sighed again, moving closer to his hospital bed. He crossed his arms. "Tracee…" he started. "I don't wanna die, but I don't know what I'm gonna do against a Reaper. I know I said I was gonna be fine, but…" He shook his head. Then he scoffed. "I don't know if I can still promise that."

"You'll be fine," Tracee suddenly spoke. Eyes darting in surprise, he focused on the tiny tank. For a heartbeat of a second, he thought she had heard him. But she kept her eyes on his body and not his spirit form. He deflated like a tire pierced by a rusty nail. "You're going to wake up… because God wouldn't do this to me again."

"God…?" Dean scoffed. "He doesn't  _care_ , Trace. Doesn't even exist." He scowled, wondering why religion had never been brought up before. He had assumed that Tracee wasn't the religious sort. "Whatever! You keep praying, or whatever it is you're doing, I'm gonna go sulk and think of a way to get this Reaper off my ass."

Before he could head over to the corner of the room, he heard the door open. Sam came in, holding a large brown paper bag. "Hey," Tracee greeted him as he stepped over to the right side of the bed. Sam gave her a tired smile before his eyes focused on the body in the bed. "What'd you get?"

"If Dean really is here, I thought maybe we could try to communicate with him," Sam explained. He shrugged and shook his head. "It was the only thing I could think of." His turned his head, eyes looking around the room. "If you're here, don't make fun of me for this, but… this might help." He pulled a rectangular box from the paper bag.

"You have  _got_  to be kidding me!" Dean exclaimed, realizing what Sam had gotten.

"An  _Ouija_  board?!" Tracee nearly shrieked, obviously mirroring the bewilderment he had felt. Dean should have seen something like this coming. His psychic brother couldn't sense him, so he decided to buy a novelty toy that  _definitely_  would not be able to sense him. Wonderful. And he had meant that with the most sarcasm he could muster. "And not even that. That's clearly a generic version, Samuel."

"They didn't have the real thing," he replied with a sheepish shrug. His brother headed over to the foot of the bed. He sank down to the floor and began unpacking the board and its triangular piece of wood used for the talking. "You want to try…?"

" _Shyeah_ …  _No_ , I've seen too many horror films, darling," Tracee answered with a shake of her head. "You go right ahead. I'll protect you from anything evil." She wheeled herself closer, giving herself a nice view of the upcoming séance.

A slight chuckle slipped out of Sam's mouth as he set the box to the side of him. "Good to know." Tracee rolled her eyes in mock exasperation. He took a deep breath before looking around the room. "Dean…?" he began. "Dean, are you here?"

The spirit in question rolled his eyes and shook his head. He dropped his arms and went over to his overly optimistic brother. "God, I feel like I'm at a slumber party," he muttered, dropping down to sit across from Sam. He sighed heavily. "Alright, Sammy, but this isn't gonna work." Sitting with his legs cross, he reached for the wooden triangle, copying his brother's posture. He blinked in surprise when his fingers didn't go through the communication device. His eyebrows rose as he began moving the indicator towards his response. Sam gasped, clearly just as surprised. "I'll be damned."

"Sam, what the  _fuck_?" Tracee hissed. "Are you just doing that to prove a point?"

"No!" he laughed out. "I'm not moving it at all. It's Dean! It's Dean!" Tracee visibly swallowed, face scrunched up. She scratched at her neck, and then pushed herself from the chair. Groaning in pain, she made her way over. "Hey, be careful!" She physically swatted away at his concern, and then finished limping towards them. She grimaced as she lowered herself near Sam. "Are your legs okay?"

"They will be," Tracee replied. "Think the nerves are healing now." She grimaced again, and then focused on the board. "Ask him something only he would know—make sure it's him. Like… Like ask him if he really  _does_  enjoy my rapping skills." With an almost vehement swipe to the left, Dean made sure they both saw that his answer was a firm 'NO.' "Well, it's definitely him—the  _ninny_." Tracee crossed her arms with a huff as Sam burst out laughing. Dean had to chuckle himself. Only the tiny tank would think of something like that to confirm his identity. Even though she had gone towards her British accent, the smile on her face outweighed her irritation.

"Oh, God, Dean…!" Sam sighed in relief. "You have no idea how much I've missed this—the three of us—it hasn't been the same without you." Tracee nodded her head in agreement, and then moved a bit closer to get a better view of the board.

"Damn straight," Dean remarked. "Okay, let's see…" He focused on the board, wondering how he could explain the situation in a few words. Something simple first. He knew that Sam would quickly catch on and fill in the blanks, so he spelled out the word 'hunt.' As expected, his brother guessed correctly, and asked if he had been hunting. His answer of 'yes' made Tracee scoff.

"Really, Dean? On your death bed, and you're  _hunting_?" She huffed lightly, resting her hands on her knees. "I can't tell if that's W.P.S or just straight W.S."

"What's W.S.?" Sam asked.

" _Winchester_ Shit," Tracee stated, completely unapologetic. Dean chose this moment to spell out 'bite me.' "That's funny. I didn't think wanting to be bitten was a hereditary trait." At first, he didn't understand, but a quick glance in Sam's direction—seeing his red face—caused the innuendo to click. Gross…! And he had opened the door for that one, hadn't he? Scowling, Dean spelled out 'gross.' Tracee only chuckled. "This is fun, let's ask him something else." She put her hand on the triangle, grinning all the while. Then she flinched, violently, and seemingly recoiled away from him. Lips parted and eyes wide, she seemed to stare right at him.

"Trace…? You're looking at me," Dean said. "You're definitely looking at me, right?"

"Tracee? What's wrong?" Sam asked, noticing her mute horror.

"I…" she began, slowly turning towards her boyfriend. She licked her lips, and her eyes glanced in Dean's direction again. "I can see him. I see Dean. He's right there in front of you."

"You can see me?! Holy crap!"

"You can see him?!" Sam questioned at the same time.

" _Sh-Shyeah_ … It's him. He looks pretty solid," Tracee replied. "He's talking, but I can't hear him. And I can't read lips, so…"

"Really?" Dean huffed out, disappointed. Just when he thought he didn't have to use this board to get his message across.

"Still, it's impressive that you can see him at all," Sam said. "You think this is a Slayer thing?"

"I'm not sure," Tracee muttered. "Slayers are able to sense spirits, that's true, but I wasn't able to sense Dean at all before. Probably because he's not a proper spirit like you said. And even then, I can only  _see_  spirits if they actively choose to reveal themselves."

"So its Dean that's making it possible?"

"I don't know, but we can experiment to see," Tracee suggested. Sam agreed with a nod. Dean had almost forgotten that his companions were the biggest nerds he knew. Of course they would want to experiment and question new information. They couldn't help themselves. "Okay, Dean, take your hands away from the plachette." Noticing the 'huh' look on his face, Tracee rolled her eyes. "The triangle, Dean."

"Could have just said that," Dean shrugged. He then, as told, took his fingers from the  _plachette_. Tracee then announced that she could not see him anymore. Honestly, he felt a little uneasy about that, so it took only a second to place his fingers on the triangle again. Tracee sighed in relief as her eyes focused on his form again.

"I don't think it's a Slayer thing," Tracee commented. "I don't think its Dean's doing either. Samuel, try sensing him like you did before."

"I wasn't trying to sense him, though," Sam admitted. "It just sorta happened."

"Well, now you  _are_  trying," she replied. "You can do it, darling." Her right hand left the triangle and rested on Sam's left. "Just like with the telekinesis. Concentrate and visualize like before, but focus on Dean inst-"

"I can see him," Sam interrupted.

"… That was fast. Wow, good job, Samuel."

"Yeah, I'm not trying," he told her, eyes honed in on Dean.

"Well, that's weird," Dean mentioned. "Can  _you_  lip read, or is seeing me all but useless? Figures—two different psychics and we can't communicate without a bloody crystal ball!"

"I can hear you!" Sam exclaimed.

"I can, too," Tracee stated, flatly. "And don't think I didn't hear that 'bloody' part. I'm going to have to tell my father. He'd be so proud."

"Let's focus here," Sam cut in before Dean would retort. "How is this possible? I just bought this thing from a regular store. It says mystical, but I highly doubt it." He looked down at the triangle with narrowed eyes.

"Let's try…" Tracee trailed off, removing her right hand from Sam. "Can you still see him?" His brother lifted his gaze, but his eyes were no longer focused. He looked as though he was staring at the wall behind Dean instead of at Dean. Solemnly, Sam shook his head. Tracee touched his skin again, and Sam stated that he was able to see again. "Okay, now, take your hands completely off." Sam did so, and after a few seconds, he said he couldn't see Dean. "I can't see him either."

Sam visibly swallowed. He looked at Tracee, and she stared back at him. Dean could see the gears shifting. They were about to come to a conclusion that he couldn't begin to understand. Sam pressed his lips together and looked down at the board. "I… It's me… I think I'm somehow using my psychic thing," he said.

"What? What does visions and telekinesis have to do with anything?" Dean questioned.

"Because he also has  _telepathic_  abilities," Tracee supplied. "I think that the plachette is being used like a conduit. When he touches it, you are able to touch it. When I touch it, along with Sam, my senses are heightened and I can see you. When I'm physically touching him, I think our abilities are… bouncing off each other—if that's the right word—making both of us communicate like normal to you, a spirit."

"So what? He's like a psychic battery?" Dean muttered.

"In theory… We would need more… tests and variations to be certain," Tracee stated, eyes shifting to Sam. He had been quiet the entire time she had given the theory. He just stared down at the board. Dean already knew his brother didn't like that he was so different. On top of that, his psychic abilities were obviously growing, more than any of them had anticipated. Sure, he had spent a week trying to move stuff with his mind—mental training, Victor had called it—but honestly, the purpose behind the training was to have a last resort if needed. A surprise to the things they might encounter. Sam hadn't been supposed to get  _another_  ability. Tracee frowned lightly, and then turned her eyes to Dean. "But we can look into that later—maybe even ask the Madam about it. Right now, we need to focus on you, Dean. What exactly have you found to hunt?"

The question had been a welcomed distraction for both Sam and Dean. Down the road, maybe they would have to address the elephant, but the three of them already had so much on their plate. So with a heavy sigh, Dean began to explain the creature lurking the hospital halls. Sam and Tracee freaked about the news of a Reaper, made worse only be telling them that it was after him. "I'm screwed," he finished, squeezing his eyes shut.

"No… There's gotta be another way," Sam insisted. He pulled away from board, and then stood up. "This-" He pointed towards the hospital bed. "This isn't natural, so this thing shouldn't be hovering around Dean in the first place. There's gotta be another-"

"Samuel, calm down," Tracee ordered, softly. At her command, Sam took a deep breath. He shut his eyes and nodded his head. "Maybe you're on to something there, but you're about to overheat your brain." Again, Sam nodded. "Now, pick me up."

"Oh, right, sorry," he said, and then moved over to Tracee. He lowered himself gripped her sides to lift her off the floor. Dean stood up as well. "Dad… Dad might know what to do. I'll tell him, and… we can figure this out together." Sam carried his girlfriend back over to the wheelchair and set her down. "Do you even still need this?"

"Maybe for a few more hours," Tracee shrugged. Smiling a little, Sam lightly kissed her cheek and said he would be back soon. As soon as he turned the corner, the tiny tank released a sigh. "Dean, I'm worried." Since there was no way for her to hear him without Sam, he remained silent, curious to see if Tracee would vent her worries. "He's… becoming a very powerful psychic. That yellow-eyed demon already said he had plans. What if by getting stronger, Sam is just painting a large target on his back? What do we do then?"

"We'll kill it," Dean blurted, though she couldn't hear. "Simple as that. Nothing is getting its nasty hands on my brother. You got that? Nothing! We'll kill anything that tries!" Tracee didn't respond to him, of course. She merely shook her head and wheeled herself to the other side of the bed, closer to the door.

Moments later, Sam came back in. He sat down at the end of the bed, showing the journal he had brought with him. Tracee faced him with a thoughtful look. "I couldn't find dad, but-" Of course his brother didn't hear the question 'where is he?' "-I got his journal, so who knows? Maybe there's something in here?" He opened the worn journal, quickly flipping through the pages. "What about you, Tracee? Your handbook say anything? I know you've read that thing front to back by now."

"Not about Reapers, no," she answered. "The book, itself, was written by humans, so I doubt Reapers are even in the book. From what you told me before, I gather that they only appear to the person about to die. No time for footnotes, I'm guessing. And I haven't actually read the whole thing—gets tedious after reading rule after rule. Where is it, by the way?"

"At Bobby's," Sam stated, distractedly. "Oh, here." He placed the journal on the bed so that Tracee could get a look at it. "I skimmed over it before." Tracee hummed in agreement. She had been known to look through the thing when she became bored on their trips. But she had complained numerous times how much she hated the way their dad wrote things down. Apparently, his notes were 'unnecessarily vague and hard to follow along.' Shaking his head at the memory, Dean looked over to see what Sam had found.

As his eyes scanned the words, they widened in shock, and then narrowed in anger. "Son of a  _bitch_!" he growled. He nearly stomped out of the room, man on a mission. Dean couldn't believe it hadn't clicked right away. He had had the nagging suspicion the entire time, and yet his stupid brain hadn't come up with it before reading about it in his dad's journal. Determined, he finally approached the room he had visited. Unlike before, the room hadn't had any lights on. There was no despondent mother inside, weeping for her unconscious daughter. No, there was only 'Tessa,' sitting on a bed that seemingly hadn't been used recently. She wore casual dark clothes in stark contrast to the lighter clothing she had been in before.

"Hi, Dean," she greeted with her hands clasped together in her lap.

"Funny," he began, stepping into the darkened room. The only light came from outside the room, from the artificial lights and the moon's light, too. "I don't remember giving you my name,  _Tessa_." She frowned then, line of sight falling to the floor. Dean almost scoffed at the sight. "I didn't know Reapers could alter human perception. They can make themselves appear however they want… Like a pretty girl with a sob story for instance. What a perfect lure for Dean Winchester, right? He'd obviously take the bait."

"… But you didn't, did you?" Tessa spoke up. "I was surprised how…  _cunning_  you were. Not at all what I imagined. From the moment you saw me, in this form, at least, half of your mind had already figured out what I might be. It was only a matter of time before the rest of you caught up."

"Why are you toying with me? You don't have shit else to do?" Dean questioned.

"You didn't give me much choice," Tessa replied, far too laid back. "You saw my true form, and you flipped out. Kinda hurts a girl's feelings." Dean clenched his jaw, forcing himself not to yell out that she wasn't a girl at all. Thoughts of Meg filled his mind though, so it had effectively stopped him from snapping on the Reaper. "This was the only way I could get you talk to me."

"Okay, fine," Dean relented through gritted teeth. "We're talking. What the hell do you want to talk about?"

"That death is nothing to fear," she answered. She stood from the bed and walked over to him. "It's your time to go, Dean." He saw her fingers reaching towards his cheek, and he immediately stepped to the side away from her touch. He had seen what the brush of fingertips could do. It may have ended that kid's suffering, but hell if he was going to let this chick touch him.

"Bullshit…!" Dean exclaimed. He backed himself away from the Reaper, and she watched him with narrowed, almost annoyed, eyes. He had seen that look way too many times on Tracee. Annoyance at having plans go astray. "There's gotta be some type of an error going on. It ain't over till the fat lady sings, and whatnot. I mean, I'm in the middle of a war right now. My family's in danger. I gotta keep fighting. I gotta keep protecting them."

"The fight's over, Dean."

"The hell it is!"

"Looks like you're in stage two—anger."

"You think this is  _funny_?"

"Dean, I take my job very seriously. The fight's over… It's over for  _you_. You're not the first soldier I've plucked from the field," Tessa explained. "They all feel the same. They can't leave. Victory hangs in the balance. I've heard it all. They're wrong. The battle goes on without them."

"No…" Dean shook his head. "No,  _you're_  wrong. You just don't get what's at stake here. My brother—he could  _die_  without me. My Slayer—she's gonna rip the world apart!" Her mocking sympathy instantly transformed to pure shock. She stared at him as though she was seeing him in a whole new way. "What?" Nearly stuttering, she asked what he had said. "What? About Trace? It's true—trust me, but I think  _her_  words were 'rip the world a-fucking-sunder.' I was just trying to, you know, censor it a little. But she's crazy enough to do it if anything happened to  _both_  of us, so-"

"Tracee Noland is a  _Slayer_?!" Tessa squawked. "That can't be! I would have seen it! I would have  _stayed away_!" Dean raised a curious brow. That was an interesting statement. Did Reapers tend to not come into contact with Slayers? That would explain why Tracee's handbook hadn't covered them. Crossing his arms, Dean informed the clearly panicked Reaper that the tiny tank had a high-level warding charm on her at all times. So far, only real ghosts, and people seconds away from dying, could sense her. "There's been a mistake. I'm not supposed to be here then. Reapers  _don't_  get involved with Slayers and their Champions."

"Champions…?" Dean repeated. "What are you talking about?"

Tessa merely sighed, ignoring the questions. "This is a huge mix up. An agent of the PTB is supposed to guide your soul. But your soul was blue last time I checked… How could this happen? Well, maybe that's the reason your time keeps fluctuating. I thought it might be due to-" Clearly, she was rambling. "I don't understand…" She shut her eyes and released a breath. "I need to check something—stay here."

Before Dean could attempt to protest, or get any more information, the Reaper disappeared from his sight. Quick as a blink, actually. Exasperated, Dean threw his arms up. The hell was that about? Champions? PTB? Blue souls? Tessa hadn't made a lick of sense, and then she had just left. Sighing, Dean looked around, unsure of the next step. Stay here? Nah. He huffed, and then moved towards the direction of the door. Who knows? Maybe with the Reaper gone, he could just pop back into his body?

With that thought in mind, Dean began his trek back to his room. His body would need time to heal, but as long as his spirit could return, it wasn't over. Hell, he would fight this so called PTB agent if or when it appeared, but he couldn't leave. Somehow, he had to get the new information to Sam and Tracee. There had never been any mention of it in dad's journal, so they would have to search elsewhere. This agent might have a weakness that could be exploited. Rather he have that now before it showed up to  _guide his soul_.

Dean suddenly halted. He swallowed hard, finding it a little hard to breathe. He gasped, holding a hand to his chest. Something inside felt like it was being tugged. "What is…?" He didn't know this feeling. It was completely new, something strange and foreign. A low hum that rattled his chest. Made him dizzy by the rawness of it. "Holy shit…" He panted, stumbling forward. Dean squeezed his eyes shut as he moved. The longer he walked, the more insistent the tugging became. The clearer the  _want_  became.

Finally, he opened his eyes, discovering things had changed. Reality went on in muted colors and the sounds of the night shift at the hospital had vanished. Dean squinted, noticing something in the distance. Something bright and gold and shining. Unaware of himself, he moved at a quicker pace towards that shining thing. For the first time since he had woken up, he had felt  _warmth_. The closer he got to it, the more the warmth spread through his body. He felt it swimming inside, leaking from his skin, humming just above the surface. It felt like it wanted to reach out to the shining thing, and so without thought, Dean broke into a jog.

He followed after, trailing a few paces behind the humanoid shape. Despite the  _need_  growing stronger, and the hums extending in its direction, Dean held himself back from touching. He didn't know what all this was, and he was wary about approaching. It didn't matter that the humming wanted to wrap around the shining thing. It didn't matter that the warmth had shifted to a pleasurable heat.

All too soon, Dean realized that he was back in his room. Though he kept his eyes on the humanoid glow, he recognized his surroundings. He noticed Sam and Tracee standing on the far side of his bed, closest towards the window. They, too, stared at the newcomer, but he doubted they could see what he could. Weird, Tracee had the same shine to her. Sam glowed, too, but his glow swayed between blue and gold. What the hell was going on? He hadn't seen that before. Tearing his eyes away, he focused on the space between his brother and the tiny tank. Wisps of their glows seemed to be interlocking and dancing around each other. Weird. Familiar. Different.

Dean furrowed his brow, and then turned his line of sight back to his shining thing. The brightness seemed to have faded during the time he had spent observing Sam and Tracee. He could now recognize the human. He blinked several times in surprise as his breath left him. His mouth formed a name, but no sound managed to make it through. Why was…? Dean took a step forward, and the air around crackled at his proximity. The visitor visibly shuddered the closer he got, but she paid no mind and only looked down at his body.

"Touch me," Dean found himself saying, unable to control the urge to. He stood by her side, watching her, watching him. He found himself breathing sharply, waiting for the touch. "Do it," he urged. This was a strange desire to  _connect_. And then, finally, her fingertips caressed his left cheek.  _Everything_  changed. Dean sighed out a laugh, and he didn't know why. Because what he felt inside was tendrils of sadness and sharp guilt. But there was so much  _heat_. It washed over him like the sea. He moved closer, and to his surprise, wisps of blue extended towards her. Her golden wisps stretched for his in response.

Anticipating the dance between their wisps of light, Dean didn't anticipate his hair getting grabbed from behind. With a startled shout, he was yanked backwards. He found himself staring into the eyes of the Reaper. But they were not the same mockingly sympathetic soft eyes. Now, they were marbled yellow and showed a cruelty he had only seen once in the eyes of his father when he had been possessed. Yellow-eyes had found him. How the hell?! "Today's your lucky day, kid," it said. Then another hand smacked against his forehead. Dean felt himself screaming. Not because of the pain… No, it had been the violent interruption. It felt like his world had been ripped apart before it could even form.

 

0-0

 


	22. Secrets & Burdens

Tracee hadn't known what to expect when her best friend had walked into the room. It certainly hadn't been Dean suddenly waking up at the slightest touch from her fingertips. She stared, mouth opened as Cassie Robinson ripped her hand away from Dean's face. She, too, appeared to be shocked by the occurrence. Sam hurried over to the door and began shouting for help while Dean coughed and sputtered. Cassie looked back at her, clearly confused. Tracee returned the look with a shrug.

Admittedly, she was all sorts of confused herself. After all, she and Sam hadn't been able to find anything sufficient on Reapers. They hadn't spoken out loud, but both of them had been about to approach desperation. Who knows what would have happened if they had both reached that point? However, Cassie had slowly made her way into the room. Tracee had forgotten about the phone call that had taken places in the early morning hours. So she had been just as surprised as Sam. Her fellow sister had focused on Dean's unmoving form. As though she had been in a trance, she hadn't acknowledged the other occupants in the room. Seconds later, Dean had awoken as though his head injury hadn't mattered. The situation had taken a baffling turn, to say the least.

However, it would seem pondering would have to wait. A group of nurses had heard Sam's frantic cries, and were now ushering everyone but the patient outside of the room. Unable to protest, Tracee was wheeled out of the room. The door slammed shut behind her. For a moment, the three of the banished occupants merely stared at the closed door. Then, almost awkwardly, Cassie turned to face the two of them. " _Um_ … I guess I was a little rude when I came in," she began. "Hi, Sam, how are you?"

"… I'm…" Sam furrowed his brow, eyeing Cassie with a cautious gaze. "I'm good."

"Considering, right?"

"Yeah, considering…" he agreed with a nod. He looked towards the closed door once more before focusing on Cassie again. "I didn't know you were going to be here."

"It was a split second decision," she replied. "Sorta dropped everything to hit the road."

Before the clumsy conversation could continue, Tracee cleared her throat. Both her best friend and lover turned her way. "Samuel," she addressed him first. "Now would probably be a good time to tell Poppa-Winchester the news." His eyes widened as though the thought had only just struck him. Cheeks coloring a bit, he nodded his head. "I think I'll head down to the cafeteria with Cassie." She decided not to tell him that she hadn't eaten anything for the last couple of days. He, at least, had drank water, but she had had nothing. "Come find us afterwards?"

"Yeah, okay," he answered. He lowered himself to kiss her left cheek. "I shouldn't be long. Hopefully dad has come back to his room by now." Sam turned and headed down the hall towards John's room. She frowned lightly, thinking of the older Winchester. This would be the third time Sam went looking for the man. What could possibly be so important that he had to stay away from his dying son? The least he could do would be to reappear to hear news of his son's miraculous recovery, right?

"… I don't think your boyfriend wants me here," Cassie muttered.

"Nonsense," Tracee remarked with a shrug. "He's just tired, and you've come out of nowhere, seemingly healing his brother. There must be some catch, right?"

"I didn't do anything!" she protested.

Tracee waved off the protest with a gentle swipe at the air. "Of course not, but like I said, he's tired—not exactly using the full extent of his thinking capabilities. To be fair, I also initially thought you might have done something." Cassie bit her lower lip, and then moved forward. Her hands gripped the handles of the wheelchair and slowly turned her to face the opposite direction that Sam had gone. As her best friend began to wheel her down the hall, Tracee placed her hands in her lap. "Obviously that's not the case. Because, to my knowledge, Slayers don't have that type of ability."

"… Maybe his injuries weren't as bad as everyone thought," Cassie suggested.

"No, they were… You didn't see what was actually done to him." Tracee curled her fingers around hands as the image of Dean being tortured entered her mind. It had been the worst thing she had ever witnessed. It had been something she never wanted to see again. "It was real bad, Cassie. I've never cried so much in my life… except for when my parents died." Her best friend wisely chose not to comment further.

For the rest of the trip, they both chose to remain quiet. Even after they had gathered sustenance and found a table, they had remained tight-lipped. Cassie quietly sipped her cup of coffee while Tracee began the first meal she had had in days. She took the time to examine her friend. She looked haggard. Not for lack of sleep, though. It was as though she had been wired for a long period of time, and had only now just come down. Her fellow Slayer had been demanding on their last phone call, but Tracee admittedly hadn't expected her to show up. Hundreds of miles away from  _Cape Girardeau_ , not many people would make that trip.

Tracee raised a brow, taking in her Cassie's appearance. With her curled hair pulled back by pins, a thin white headband, and a hair tie, it looked more like a tangled mess than a mane fit for a lion. Clearly, she hadn't put in an effort to tame her hair before she had left her house. She wore a simple purple tank top with her black jacket not zipped up at all. Her dark blue slacks hadn't been ironed. On top of all that, she hadn't worn makeup. Not that she needed it, but Cassie admitted to liking the process of putting on makeup. Admittedly, her appearance was quite the opposite of what Tracee had come to expect. Clearly, Cassie had left just after getting out of bed. She had rushed here after learning about the car accident.

After a few more moments of quiet, her best friend finally broke the silence by clearing her throat. "So what about you? How are you physically?" she questioned. With a sigh, Tracee told her about the physical injuries she had sustained because of the accident. "Shouldn't you have healed completely by now? I mean, it's been more than twenty-four hours."

"My lack of eating probably has something to do with that," Tracee replied. Then pointedly took a bite out of her cold sandwich. "Makes sense, right?" She chewed and swallowed as Cassie fell silent. "But let's get to the question you really want to ask." Her fellow Slayer remained quiet and took a larger sip of her coffee.  _Hm_. Hesitance. Unusual for someone of her profession. "Dean," Tracee began without prompting. "Was hurt worse than any of us before the accident took place. He took the credit for something I did, and the demon we were tracking… retaliated. I don't know what that demon did, but it was horrible to watch Dean suddenly start bleeding from his chest and mouth, and screaming. I should have been the one to take that hit."

"Can't say I'm surprised…" Cassie remarked. "Dean has also been self-sacrificing… even before I found out what that actually entails."

" _Shyeah_ , it's a bad habit that I've got to break… for both of them," Tracee bit out.

"… This… This is a lot more dangerous than I ever imagined." Her fellow Slayer released a heavy sigh. She shook her head. "I don't understand why they  _choose_  to do… what they do." All ten of her digits gripped the mug. "I mean, I know Dean… Deep down, he cares about people. He pretends that he doesn't, but I know." Her gaze became unfocused as though she was reliving some distant memory. Some peaceful time that Dean had let her in on a secret, or he had actually showed how much he cared. Cassie's eyes sharpened again, and then she continued speaking. "But that still doesn't explain why he risks himself like  _this_. Why get so hurt? Why wind up in a coma for this life? I don't-"

"So I'm guessing that when Dean told you about his life, you didn't let him get to the part about why," Tracee interrupted. Guiltily, her friend shook her head. Tapping her finger against the table's surface, Tracee wondered if she should proceed. Sure, Dean and Sam had let her know the why, but it may have been accidental. Perhaps they hadn't meant to, but because one of their hunts centered on their childhood home, the  _why_  had come up. And even before that, Dean had reluctantly—at Sam's insistence—admitted to how their mother left this world. She had had inklings even before the full tragedy and aftermath had been told to her. Tracee breathed in deeply through her nose, and then exhaled. "This particular demon that we've been looking for… murdered their mother. Dean was four at the time."

"What? That's… That's crazy."

"It happened," Tracee assured her. "Because of that, Poppa-Winchester gained knowledge about this different world. He used that knowledge to teach his sons and hunt things. They started on this path because of vengeance. And they will stay until that vengeance is complete." Cassie sat back in her chair, visibly showing that the new information was sinking deep. Tracee allowed her a few moments to process. It had also taken her a bit to comprehend their struggle. Sam had only recently lost a love one by the same method. He wouldn't leave—not truly—until this demon was dead. "Now, the reason Dean got so hurt is because this demon found out that we have the means of killing him—literally killing him."

"The Colt…" Cassie nodded her head in understanding.

"The Colt," Tracee repeated, dipping her chin. Her eyes scanned the rest of the cafeteria. From her vantage point, they were the only two around. In addition, the cafeteria didn't have an echo. Still, the Slayer leaned forward. Noticing her change in demeanor, Cassie mirrored the movement. "I know the reason this gun, and its bullets, are capable of killing anything supernatural." Her whispered words caused Cassie's eyebrows to shoot up in surprise. "But before I tell you, this stays between us, understand? No one else can know."

"Of course!"

"And… just to make sure…  _Deus_." The only physical reaction Cassie displayed at the Latin word was to screw her expression into perplexity. The color of her eyes hadn't changed, which meant she hadn't been mistakenly about to reveal vital information to the enemy. "Sorry—a precaution," Tracee explained.

"I guess that's fair," Cassie said, unable to contain the frown. "So you found out more about this gun?"

"More than the gun," she replied. "The bullets, too. The bullets are what makes the gun work. The gun is what makes the bullets work. Can't have one without the other."

"I found out about the gun, too. I managed to find some history."

"Damn, Cassie—you're still badass," Tracee complimented with a sly grin. Her fellow Slayer grinned and chuckled. "What'd you bring me?" she asked, excitement bubbling within her. Despite the circumstances, obtaining new information to unlock a mystery was a thrill. Cassie's expression turned flat, and she rolled her eyes in an exaggerated fashion, probably already knowing. She then took a deep breath and opened her mouth to begin.

"It took a lot digging, but eventually, I came up with a series of events that happened in the 1800s that did not add up," she said. "And when something doesn't quite add up…"

"That's when the journalists come out to play…?"

"Very funny," Cassie muttered sarcastically. Tracee merely smirked. "But yes, that's makes me dig deeper. Tracing documentation on Slayers, I was able to compose a rough timeline for girls who were called during the 1800s. There's  _a lot_  of information missing. In 1812, Elizabeth Wetson was the Slayer. Her death wasn't documented. Next in line, there's nothing. In fact, there's no history until the death of another Slayer in 1841—Naayee neizghani. Her calling was not written down."

"So just like regular history books, supernatural history books are also skewed? What a surprise," Tracee bit out sardonically. She had never liked learning history. Give her a mystery to solve, she was golden. Psychology books, which was based on logic and repeated experiments and results, she was good. But history…? Something written from a winner's perspective or from someone who only saw a portion of an event? She could care less. History had been her worst subject in school.

"Pretty much," Cassie agreed. "Now, I stuck with this time frame, trying to find anything I could as to why the… the  _Watchers_  didn't attempt to fill in the blanks. In regards to Slayers, the  _Library_  gave me nothing. But you know what it did give me?  _Prophecies_. These Watchers cared more about them than they did their Slayers. Prophecies are documented, along with different interpretations and translations. Dates and locations, too, of when the prophesized actually happened. They  _rate_  them. They put them in order. And they match them up with… apocalypses, which are also written like a science paper. There have been  _hundreds_  of them, Tracee." Cassie shook her head as if she still couldn't believe it. "The world has almost ended so many times, it's amazing that it's still intact. It's amazing to think that  _one_  girl, in every generation, can stop the world from ending."

"Humbles pretty much everything else, doesn't it?" Tracee murmured. Cassie huffed out a laugh. "So what did you find in one of the prophecies?"

"I'm pulling this from memory, so don't take what I say as what I read," Cassie informed her. Then she shut her eyes and hummed a bit. "Okay, so basically, the prophecy said that an Old One would rise; he would leave behind seas of ice and fire to bring darkness and chaos back to the world."

"An Old One…" Tracee repeated. "I've read about them. Powerful demons, completely pure. Banished from this dimension." Cassie nodded. "Don't tell me some idiot decided to summon one."

"That is probably what happened," she replied with a shrug. "But the prophecy goes on to say that the Chosen One, the Connected, will rise as well, and with searing fire, quickly strike down the Old One five times before its reign could begin."

"Five times? Wow, was that overkill or just necessary? Either way, I don't think I ever want to tangle with an Old One."

"Yeah, no kidding," Cassie agreed. "Anyway, the reason that particular prophecy caught my attention was because it was the only one I found that happened in 1835."

"The same year the Colt was created."

"Exactly, so I starting breaking down the prophecy. Chosen One—that's pretty obvious. Normally, it automatically means Slayer. The searing fire, the seas of ice and fire, and the Connected were all confusing, though, and the translation didn't really help. Believe me, what I told you is a very watered down version of what I read." Cassie sighed through her nose. "To cut a long story short, I figured out that the seas of ice and fire alluded to the Great Fire of New York that happened in 1835—the sea was frozen because of the weather. And the Great Fire speaks for itself. The searing fire, that struck down the Old One fives, had to be from a gun. It's the only weapon that could fire rapidly at the time. Searing fire was probably the only way to describe something that hadn't been invented yet…"

"I get what you're saying," Tracee stated. "The prophecy took place in 1835. The Colt was created in 1835. 1835 is also between the certain amount of time that a Slayer's work went undocumented. So your theory is one of us commissioned and used the Colt to kill a very powerful demon, which took five shots to actually kill it. But no one actually knows about it because someone neglected to write it down."

"That sounds about right," Cassie said.

"Well, you're correct then. The Madam has already felt the gun and told me that it was made for a Slayer. One of us  _did_  use it," Tracee confirmed. "But who is the Connected in the prophecy?"

"I actually didn't figure that part out. I feel like I looked everywhere in the Library. There's nothing else that says 'The Connected' in anything," Cassie admitted. "But I figure she had someone helping her. An ally, or something. Even with a gun that could kill anything and the powers of a Slayer, going alone to face an Old One sounds like suicide."

" _Shyeah_ , you're probably right…" Tracee trailed off, unsure of why that stood out to her. "But if you can, try to finish theorizing that prophecy. Even though it's already come to pass, that might have been the first time in our history that a  _modern_  weapon was used to kill something supernatural." Fortunately, Cassie seemed to agree with that, which meant that she had planned on looking further into without an actual prompting. "Okay, so you found out about the gun's initial use. Let me tell you why I think a  _gun_  would work in the first place."

A certain gleam entered Cassie's eye. She had refuted such a thing the first time the idea had been presented to her, but she now had become intrigued by it, truly wanting to know more. Tracee almost snorted in amusement. One day, Cassie Robinson just might throw in the towel and choose to be more than a researching type of Slayer. Until then, she would keep the running bet to herself.

"The Madam felt the bullets and freaked out because the bullets were forged with the blood of a Slayer," Tracee continued in a hushed tone. Cassie's eyes widened, clearly horrified by the news. Her best friend had a sharp mind. She might have already grasped the consequences of something like that getting out. Hundreds of Slayers could become more at risk than they already were if word got out that their blood could be used for something like that. Their blood could be  _weaponized_. "It may not be the only thing that's used to make these bullets, but I'm pretty sure it's the main reason why they're able to kill anything."

"I…" Cassie seemed to be at a loss. She rubbed at her eyes and released a heavy sigh. Then she dropped her hands to her lap. "Does anyone else besides you and Missouri know?"

"Just us three," Tracee said. "I haven't told any of the Winchesters. At this point, no matter how much I trust Dean and Sam, it would be a mistake. They have enough to worry about. I'm not trying to add to it. However, I cannot stop my curiosity. I want to know what other ingredients went into making these bullets. That's the reason I took a bullet from the Colt. I was going to pass it off to the Madam when I could so she could get a better  _look_  at it. Who knows? Maybe one day that information will be imperative."

"I guess that's a good plan, but I'm worried, Tracee," Cassie confessed. "That little piece of information can cause  _so_  much damage."

"Which is why I didn't want to tell you through text. Information like that  _cannot_  be written down. More than likely, it's the reason no one else was able to imitate it—the reason why no other weapon like the Colt exists."

"Okay, so where's the other bullet?"

"In the pocket of my jeans. I think I'm going to give it to you to hand off to the Madam." At her look of confusion, Tracee opened her mouth to explain. "You're more mobile than I am."

"You literally road trip around the country."

" _Shyeah_ , but the crazy white boys I travel with will know something's up. I don't want them to get even a  _little_  suspicion about this. They absolutely cannot know until I'm ready to tell them." Cassie nodded her head, and then her body tensed as her eyes darted to the right of Tracee. Realizing that her friend no longer focused on her, the smaller woman twisted in her wheelchair to see what had given Cassie a start. "Samuel…" The youngest Winchester was in the process of walking towards them. Had he heard anything? To her relief, Sam hadn't seemed like he had overheard. He took a chair from another table and sat down next to her. A chaste kiss to her cheek had been his greeting.

"Hey," he said. He sighed heavily. "I couldn't find dad anywhere."

"Oh…" Tracee frowned. "That's unfortunate. I'm sure he'll turn up eventually." Sam scoffed lightly, choosing not to voice his irritation. "Here, I got you a salad." She pushed the plastic container towards her lover, along with a packet of plastic ware. He gave a small grateful smile that caused her insides to tingle in a pleasant way, and then he opened the container. She waited for him to take a few hungry bites before she cleared her throat. "Did you happen to catch any news about Dean?"

"Yeah, I-" Sam halted, swallowed his food, and then warily glanced at Cassie. She had been quiet throughout the exchange. Noticing Sam's change, her friend gave a short huff.

"Relax, Sam," she told him. "Tracee already gave the test. I passed."

"… Sorry, Cassie," Sam mumbled, appearing sincere with the apology. "With the way things are-"

"No, I get it. Tracee was just filling me in on what happened," Cassie explained. "You're under a lot of stress, and right now, there's a limit on the people you can trust."

"Still, I-I don't mean to be rude. It's good to see you. Dean's gonna appreciate you being here," Sam said. Cassie merely lowered her gaze to the surface of the table, not responding to the comment. "Speaking of Dean-" He turned her eyes to Tracee. "I managed to catch one of the nurses. She said that they're running assessments on his physical condition. It'll take a few hours to get through everything, so we're welcome to wait in his room until the doctor comes in to explain the findings. I figure we can finally get a few hours of sleep now that Dean's awake, and then after hearing what the doctor gotta say, we can figure out what exactly happened."

"Sounds like a plan. Let's eat, and then head back up," Tracee announced.

"Yeah," Sam agreed. "Are you really gonna eat all this, though? This looks like double of what you normally get." Tracee internally winced as she shared a panicked look with her fellow Slayer. Truthfully, Cassie had brought over half of the food that was currently on the table. Slayer appetite and all. She hadn't eaten anything since she had hit the road to come to this hospital. She must have been starving. "Are you gonna share with me?" She decided to leap at the handout.

"Of course, darling. I noticed that you hadn't eaten anything," Tracee said. "I know most of it's not your rabbit food-" Sam gave her a sarcastic laugh. "-but I would feel better if you had some protein in you." Her lover nodded before reaching for a large sandwich wrap, stuffed full of turkey, ham, and bacon. A slight whimper from Cassie told her that Sam had just picked what she had brought over. Tracee cleared her throat nervously. "Cassie has to eat some of this, too, so I'm sharing with both of you. So dig in." Her friend threw her a thankful look before reaching for some of her meal. Internally, Tracee sighed. It seemed as though Cassie also didn't want neither Winchester getting even a little suspicious either.

 

0-0

 

At the sound of her name, Tracee groaned lightly and cracked her eyes open. The room was brighter than when she had managed to shut her eyes. Blinking rapidly, she sat up, noting that she hadn't been as warm as she had before falling asleep. It would seem that she no longer lied on top of Sam with his arms wrapped around her. Finally, the blurriness cleared her eyes as she sat up on the three cushioned couch. She wiped at her chin as her gaze focused on the one calling out to her. "Samuel…?" she drawled, and then covered a yawn. "What time is it?"

"A little after ten," he told her. "Come on. Get up. Dean's here."

Almost instantly, the lure of sleep left her and she nearly leapt from the couch at the news. At the back of her mind, she realized that her body no longer felt a tremendous ache from movement, but mostly it focused on the fact that Dean was conscious and giving her a tired grin. "Hey, sleepyhead," he greeted, nonchalantly. "Please, save your hugs for later—you probably have morning breath." As though he hadn't put her through hell. As if he hadn't gone through hell himself. Tracee swallowed hard as she moved towards the right side of his bed. Many retorts entered her mind. She wanted him to know just how foolish he had been. She wanted to rant about his methods and make him promise that he would never put himself in that type of danger ever again.

"Shut up," Tracee eventually said, voice filled with mirth and warmth. Helplessly, she smiled widely. It was just so good to see him…  _alive_. Without all those machines hooked to him to sustain his life, including the tube to help him breathe, Dean looked a whole lot better now. After all the crying and praying, he was going to be okay. The utter relief she felt shook her insides. She looked up at the ceiling and blinked back tears. Once composed, she returned her eyes to the older Winchester brother. "How are you?" she questioned, reaching for him.

"Sammy already did the mother hen act, so don't bother," Dean answered, swatting her attempt at doing body checks. Tracee pursed her lips, but kept her hands to herself without comment. Dean then took on a more serious look. "He also told me about the ghost whispering and me being a spirit hunter."

"I did not say spirit hunter," Sam mentioned, coming to stand beside Tracee. She glanced at him, wondering just how much had been told. "I told him everything, though. He doesn't remember anything."

"Not a thing?" Tracee questioned.

"No," Dean answered with a shake of his head. "Everything's just blank… Last thing I remember-" His face scrunched up in concentration. "-I remember some kinda light. It split in two and drilled into my brain. It hurt, but… but, I don't know, it was good. Better than physical pain, I mean. I can't explain it."

"… That's probably from the truck that actually hit us," Sam said with a frown. "You were probably instantly knocked unconscious, so you couldn't feel anything anymore."

"Maybe…" he sounded uncertain.

"You don't remember the Reaper that was after you?" Tracee asked. Dean's eyebrows rose and he shook his head again. "Maybe you somehow discovered its weakness and used it to get back into your body? The Reaper might have made it so you couldn't remember once you woke up."

"That's a strangely optimistic of you," Dean remarked.

"… After the past few days, I'm pretty sure I get to be."

Before Dean could make another comment, a knock on the door interrupted. Tracee hadn't needed to look. Dean's reaction to the newcomer had been enough. His mouth dropped open and his eyebrows jumped high at the sight of Cassie walking towards his bed. Last time she had checked, her fellow Slayer had been asleep in the chair near the window. She must have left for the restroom. Judging from the plastic cup in her hand, she had made a trip to get a drink as well. "Hey, Dean," she greeted softly.

"Cassie…?" Her whispered name had barely been audible. Dean visibly swallowed as his former girlfriend came to a stop on the left side of the bed. "What… Why?" He seemed to be at a loss. No attempt at humor. No swelling up to show his tough-guy persona. Just utter astonishment. The energy of the room had morphed and seemed to swirl and crackle around the two. It reminded Tracee very much of the first time she had seen them in a room together. Then, of course, she had been distracted by Sam ogling the taller woman. That had put a damper on her mood before, but now she could clearly see. There was a distinct air between them, one that was both thrilling and heartbreaking to watch.

"I…" Cassie bit her lower lip, dropping her gaze to the floor. "I called Tracee yesterday morning. She told me what happened, so I… I just got in my car… and didn't stop driving until I was here." Her unoccupied hand twitched and jerked, but ultimately remained at her side. It was as though she had wanted to touch him, but obviously had thought better of it. "I'm really glad you're okay." Dean didn't give a verbal response. He just kept staring and staring as though he were in a trance. Sam pointedly cleared his throat, breaking the intense atmosphere.

Smirking a bit, Tracee turned her attention to her lover to see that his expression mirrored hers. He obviously still got a kick out of Dean's behavior around Cassie, and he would certainly tease his older brother later on. There would  _be_  a later on. Chuckling a bit, she watched Dean flounder and sputter out a response to Cassie, something about hoping she hadn't had a bad drive. Apparently, the awkwardness ran in the family, and could come to light at the most inopportune times. Cassie gave a half-smile, fond-like. She didn't mind, it seemed.

Before Sam could make any type of comment—because Tracee could sense that he wanted to—the doctor came into the room. Same one as before who had basically told them to get their house in order. A twinge of annoyance was felt as the man entered the room. He held a clipboard in his hands, most likely with the results of the testing. "Good morning," he greeted the occupants of the room. Tracee folded her arms as the others greeted the doctor in return. "Well, let's hop right into it, shall we?" He approached the bed, standing to the right of Cassie. He glanced at her, but didn't comment to the new addition. Focusing on the paper, cleared his throat. "I didn't do the evaluations myself, but these results…"

"Tell it to me straight, doc," Dean said in good humor.

"That's the thing. There's no bad way of putting this," the doctor said. "I can't explain it. The edema has vanished. The internal contusions are healed. Even your vitals are good. You're as healthy as a horse." His gaze shifted in Tracee's direction. "And you, Ms. Noland, I'm surprised that you're standing. You refused treatment and evaluations, but as far as I can see, you're in perfect health, too. Your cuts are even almost gone. It's  _amazing_."

"I take-"

"Lots of vitamins, I know," the doctor finished, good-naturedly. "Whatever it is, you two are very lucky. You gotta have some kind of angel watching over you."

"Thanks, doc," Dean replied. The older man nodded his head, and then turned to leave the room. After waiting a few seconds, he spoke again. "Where's dad?"

"You got me," Sam scoffed. "He hasn't shown himself since before I came back with the Ouija board."

" _Why_  did you get an Ouija board?" Cassie questioned.

"I'll tell you about that later," Tracee stated. At Dean slightly panicked look, she decided that now wasn't the best time to mention Dean's time as a spirit hunter. "For now, I bet our boy's hungry."

"Well, now that you mention it," Dean began. Seemingly glad for the distraction, he grinned and rubbed his belly. "I could go for a burger right now. Feels like a pit in my stomach."

"You still like cheeseburgers with extra bacon?" Cassie asked.

"Oh, that's never gonna change," Dean answered, eyes lighting up as he turned his attention back to the curly-haired woman.

"Well, it's early, but I can see if I can find someone to make that for you."

Dean opened his mouth, flirt on the tip of his tongue, but another knock on the door caught everyone's attention. To their surprise, John Winchester stood in the threshold, or rather leaned. This was the first time Tracee had laid eyes on the man since before the car crash. He was pretty banged up. Bruises and cuts on his face and neck. His arm had been wrapped up and in a sling. "How you feeling, dude?" John asked, eyes focused on his oldest son.

"Fine, I guess," Dean muttered. "I'm alive."

"That's what matters," John replied, eyelids lowering and a crooked smile showing. Finally, he seemed to notice the addition in the room. His eyes turned to Cassie. Apparently, he had never seen the woman before. "Who are you?"

"My name is Cassie Robinson. I'm a… I'm a friend," she answered. "It's a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Winchester, though I wish it wasn't like this."

"Yeah…" John narrowed his eyes. Then his brow rose, a look of recognition crossing his face. " _Cassie_ …? Aren't you the girl who Dean moped about for-" The Winchester brother in question began coughing and hacking in quite the obnoxious manner. Clearly, he had intended to interrupt his father. Tracee discreetly covered her mouth in an attempt to hide her amused smile. No, it wasn't funny finding out that Dean had moped about because of Cassie, but it was a bit amusing to have John, seemingly innocent in his curiosity, bring it up while said girl was in the room.

"Um, yeah, so about that cheeseburger…" Dean said. Cassie turned to him, eyebrow cocked and an 'Excuse me?' expression on her face. "Please?" he added, cheeks flushed and looking hopeful. The taller woman smiled and nodded.

"I'll be right back," she told him. "Here, I got you some water." She handed the cup over to Dean, and he took it, returning the smile. "I'm… really glad you're okay." Her repeat of her earlier sentiment caused Dean to clear his throat. He hid his growing smile by taking the plastic cup to his lips. Cassie huffed out a chuckle, and then turned. She left the room with a polite nod to John on the way out. After a moment, the man spoke.

"She seems nice, Dean," he complimented. His oldest responded by vigorously draining the water in the plastic cup. John's crooked smile returned, and then he lowered his gaze to the floor as he stepped into the room.

"Where were you last night?" Sam spoke up, voice already mixing with annoyance. Tracee glanced up at his expression. Hard and focused on John, it appeared as though he wasn't going to back down. "I looked for you. Were you even in the hospital?"

"… I had some things to take care of," John answered, vague as always.

"Well, that's specific," Sam bit out.

"Come on, Sam…" Dean tried. His brother hadn't given him a glance for his efforts of diffusing the argument before it began.

"Did you go after the Demon?" Sam questioned. John's jaw became rigid as he stiffly gave a negative answer. "You know,  _why_  don't I believe you right now?" Tracee drew in a soft breath. Well, she supposed now that Dean was okay, it was time to get back to the status quo. Arguments between father and son would return with luster, it appeared.

"Can we… Can we not fight?" John asked. Tracee's brow twitched a bit. She didn't know John very well, but something about his demeanor was strange. He was relaxed and accepting. A polar opposite of the last time his youngest had questioned him. That she had witnessed, anyway. This seemed… different. "You know, half the time we're fighting, I don't know  _what_  we're fighting about. We're just butting heads." Sam didn't know what to say. He seemed just as surprised by the reaction. "Look, Sammy, I… I've made some mistakes, but I've always done the best I could. You were right, though… I have been locked in the past. It's what made me who I am. It's what makes me so stubborn, but I won't do that anymore. I just don't want to  _fight_  anymore."

"Dad… Are you all right?" Sam sounded concerned.

"Yeah, dad, what's wrong?" Dean, too, seemed to be thrown off by John's behavior.

The man took his time answering. His crooked smile became just the tiniest bit sad. Perhaps he thought about the irony of his sons asking such questions when he  _wasn't_  trying to argue. Perhaps the near death of his boy had finally knocked some sense into his head. Tracee couldn't say she wouldn't be grateful to the change. "Yeah, yeah… I'm just a little tired," John stated. "Hey, son, would you mind,  _uh_ … Would you mind getting me a cup of caffeine?"

"… Yeah. Yeah, sure," Sam answered, voice hesitant. He awkwardly shifted his weight from foot to foot, and then slipped his hand into Tracee's. The action had surprised her, but she easily followed after him as he made his way to the door. He squeezed her hand as they walked further and further away from the room. His body was tense, and his confusion was so great that she could taste it. Tracee blinked a few times before matching his pace. With her free hand, she soothingly rubbed his arm. Sam halted and sighed deeply. Good thing, too. They had made it beyond the patient rooms, and passed two coffee machines already. "Something's weird, Tracee."

"You don't have to convince me," she said. "I am in full agreement."

"I mean, why would he-?" Sam sighed heavily. "I don't know, but I know he's hiding something."

"He wouldn't be Poppa-Winchester without that," Tracee said. "But… Perhaps now isn't the time to bring it up?" Intense eyes shifted in her direction, and she could see the hazel in his irises shift with emotion. Finally, he stopped squeezing her hand, but he didn't let go. "We made it through quite the ordeal, darling. And yet, we're all still here. Dean's okay. I'm well. Poppa-Winchester's up and doing God knows what. You're fine. We're all good. For a few hours, or… at least until we leave the hospital, shouldn't we focus on that?"

Sam continued to stare. However, the intensity seemed to be dwindling. Eventually, he breathed in deeply though his nose, and then exhaled through his mouth. He shut his eyes and slipped his hand away. Then suddenly, his arms were around her, one hand reaching to slide into her hair. Tracee, smiling, buried her face in his yellow plaid shirt. It was warm and pleasant, but… Well... She idly wondered the last time he had showered as she returned his embrace. Sam sighed again, squeezing her a bit harder. "This is why I keep you around. You can always make me see reason," he said, rearing back a bit.

"That better not be the  _only_  reason," she glared up at him and smiled.

" _Nah_ , of course not," Sam stated. He planted a quick kiss to her forehead. "Let's head back." He released her, sniffed lightly, and then turned to get his father a small cup of coffee.

"Since we're here, did you want a snack, or something," Tracee asked, separating from him. She peered into a nearby vending machine. "This one has pastries."

"I'm good, but there's some more change in my pocket if you want something," he replied as he pressed buttons on the coffee machine. Stifling her excitement, Tracee immediately began patting him down for said change. Sam only chuckled at her behavior. Once they were both finished, they walked side by side on their way back to Dean's room. The walk was as quiet as the first. Less tense, and more leisure, allowing Tracee to actually keep up with Sam's long legs.

Suddenly, Sam abruptly stopped. She almost hadn't noticed. She turned back to him, seeing his gaze looking into a room. "Samuel…?" Tracee questioned. When he didn't respond, she turned to face what had caught his attention. A sharp inhale of breath cut through the quiet like a blade. There, sprawled on the floor, was John Winchester. His chest did not rise and fall. No part of him moved at all.

"Dad…?" Sam whispered, almost not sounding like a man anymore. For a heartbeat of a second, he sounded like a little boy. Horrified, Tracee could only stare at the still form, feeling the blood drain from her face. Why was-? The cup must have slipped from Sam's hand because she suddenly felt scorching hot liquid splash up and soak through her patient's garb. Sam left her side and rushed into the room. He shouted for his dad to wake up, but nothing he did could rouse the oldest Winchester. Then he began screaming for help.

The screaming snapped her from her stupor. Tracee sharply turned and dashed down the hallway. Without thought, she moved quickly, hearing the blood roaring in her ears. The world went by in a blur, but soon her surroundings became clear. She had come to a halt outside of Dean's room. He turned his head, brow furrowed. The older Winchester brother sat up, startled by her appearance. "Dean, its John." Alarmed, his eyes grew wide. It could have been her distraught state. It could have been the use of his father's name. Hell, it could have been the way tears trickled down her face—she could feel them. When the hell had she started crying?  _Fuck_. Whatever the case, Dean swiped the covers from his body and leapt from the bed.

They both rushed out of the room and darted down the hall towards where she had left Sam. By the time they had made it to the room, a group of nurses had gone to work, moving in a flurry around John's body. They had gotten him on the bed and seemed to be trying to resuscitate. The doctor was with them, giving orders and such. Tracee saw his lips moving, but she couldn't hear anything other than the annoying droning beep of the heart monitor. The three of them crowded outside the room, watching the medical team work. The seconds ticked by with no change. The seconds ticked by like an eternity. Dread creeped in as the doctor's frown deepened. Oh God, she had made a horrible mistake. She had brought Dean to the site of a painful event.

"Okay. Stop compression," the doctor ordered.

"No, no, no," Dean murmured, shaking his head.

"Come on, dad," Sam urged, his fingers gripping her arm.

"I'll call it," the doctor continued. "Time of death—10:41 A.M."

She had made it so that both brothers witnessed the death of their father.

From experience, she knew that was a fate crueler than anything.

 

0-0

 

Cassie could hardly believe it. Here she stood next to Dean Winchester, watching his father's body burn on the manmade pyre. She swallowed painfully, pushing back thoughts of her own father. It hadn't been too long ago that she had lost him. Not even half a year later, she was standing at another funeral in the middle of the night. Beside her, Dean remained stoic. He had been unresponsive at the hospital, and hadn't said a word since. Even as they had loaded the body into her car. Even as the pyre had been built. Even as they had placed the wrapped up body on top. He hadn't spoken at all. It was a side of Dean she had never been privy to.

No one had explained what had happened to her. Tracee had done her best to inform her of what they had to do, which was burning the body, but other than that, no one told her the cause of death. Dean and Sam had been completely unapproachable. Inconsolable. Cassie knew the feeling all too well, so she had kept her mouth shut and allowed the process of the funeral to take place. Despite the many questions that had come to mind. She had only been gone for about fifteen minutes. What could have possibly happened in that period of time that caused John Winchester's end? He had seemed relatively okay. Then suddenly he's just  _dead_? This was too much to take in, especially on a spur of the moment trip.

On the other side of Dean, his brother and Tracee stood, also watching the flames. Sam had been crying. Hadn't stopped, actually. Her fellow Slayer remained at his side. Quiet, yet comforting, she held his hand. Their intertwined fingers made her feel the slightest tug of envy. She had wished someone had been there to comfort her in her time of need. Her devastated mother hadn't been the best choice. As a daughter, she had to be the strong one. Cassie shut her eyes for a moment. When she opened them, they focused on the clenched right hand of the man beside her. Judging from the rigidity of his entire body, Dean had the same idea. As the older brother, he had no choice but to be the strong one.

Cassie bit her lip, returning her gaze to the fire. She stamped down the urge of taking Dean's hand. Maybe if their circumstances were different, she wouldn't have to ignore the longing. Maybe if she hadn't slammed that proverbial door, she wouldn't have to hesitant in reaching for him. In comforting him. A simple action that seemed so easy for Tracee to do with her grieving Winchester.

"Before…" Sam began, voice broken and raw from the crying. He paused, sniffing harshly. "Before he…" He halted again, unable to voice what had happened. Tracee whispered a few words that Cassie could hear because of the crackling fire. But Sam must had heard because he took a deep breath to compose himself. The words must have calmed him down enough. "Did he say anything to you?" he continued. "About anything?"

For a long moment, Dean did not respond to the question. The extended silence caused Cassie to finally look at Dean's face. His expression was a void, as it had been since she had returned from getting his cheeseburger—which had gone uneaten—but his eyes… His eyes reflected the flames and churned with smoldering emotion. It was made clear to see, especially when both eyes watered. A tear formed and slipped from his eye, and it broke her heart to see. A silent sharp breath left her mouth.

"No," Dean answered. Another tear fell, but his voice hadn't betrayed the damage. "Nothing."

Cassie knew immediately that Dean had intended to hide the damage for as long as possible. How very much like him. Only this time, in this situation, he couldn't just deflect with humor. He couldn't just pretend it didn't get to him. His father was dead, and he had left a huge burden behind. And Dean would carry that burden, whatever it might be. Because clearly—at least to her—his answer had been a lie. She had always recognized a lie when it would come out of his mouth. Looking back, she had recognized that he hadn't been lying when he had told her about his life. Feelings of hurt and incredulity had overrode that sense, though. It hadn't been a wonder that their breakup had been so bad.

Clenching her teeth, she turned her attention back to the fire. Again, she swallowed hard, thinking of her own father. She wanted to cry, too. Not just because of Dean's shield-like behavior, but because the situation was too much like the death of her father. Cassie wasn't stupid. Something supernatural had gone down at the hospital during the fifteen minutes she had been away. But she was guessing justice hadn't taken place. Whatever had done this was still out there. Would Dean want revenge? She had certainly wanted it. Wanted it enough to go outside and confront her own father's murderer. And because of that, she had discovered what she was.  _Slayer_.

But this was not about her now. This was about Dean and his brother, grieving the loss of their father. So, biting her lower lip, Cassie ignored reason for a moment and slowly moved her hand towards Dean's. Expectedly, he flinched at her touch. Cassie stubbornly kept her eyes on the flames even though she wanted to see the reaction on his face. Moments went by, and finally, his clenched hand relaxed. Her fingers intertwined with his, and she almost sighed in relief. She pressed her lips into a thin line as she squeezed his hand. He didn't squeeze back, but the link was enough. She couldn't see, but she could sorta sense that Dean's body had lost a bit of tension. It was enough.

And so the four of them stood like that for hours, watching the fire burn through the body, leaving behind nothing but ashes. Once done, Tracee took the reins, so to speak, and doused the fire with a bucket of water. No one spoke, but they all got the sense that the funeral was over. The group of four made their way back to Cassie's car. Still, not speaking, the two brothers climbed into the back seat. Herself, and Trace, took the front. Turning her key in the ignition, Cassie stared up her car and soon they were off, driving into the night.

Tracee quietly gave her directions, and she listened intently. She had believed they would be stopping at a hotel, but once the car came to a halt, she realized they were outside a house. Cassie might have made a face because she felt a nudge from her friend. "The inside isn't so bad," she remarked, and then moved to get out of the car. Sighing, Cassie turned off the car and opened her door. The four of them walked to the front door. It was still the middle of the night with morning fast approaching, but Tracee only knocked twice before the door swung open. Behind the screen door was an older man with a beard. Underneath the visor of his trucker hat, he stared suspiciously at them, but obviously recognized his visitors. "Sir Robert," Tracee greeted, gravely.

"It's Bobby," the man said. "You guys look like hell. Come in." He held the screen door open. Despite the comment, Cassie was surprised by his hospitality. The four of them went in and the door was shut behind them. Tracee had been right in her assessment. The inside was a bit better than the outside. Though, there were stacks of books here and there. She could spot, at least, three bookcases, and she hadn't even made it to the living room. "So what happened? Where's John?"

Cassie internally winced at the question, eyes darting to Dean. He visibly grinded his teeth, and it took a lot not to reach out to him. Tracee was the one to speak up. "He didn't make it," she answered. "We burned his body." The man, Bobby, lowered his gaze to the floor, flashes of regret crossing his face. He murmured his condolences, but the two brothers didn't respond. "If it's possible, would we… would we be able to stay the night? To regroup?"

"Of course," Bobby said. "You don't have to ask. You can take the two bedrooms upstairs. I'll sleep on the couch."

"Bobby, we don't want-"

"Nonsense, Sam," Bobby interrupted. "You all just went through hell. Go upstairs and get some rest. We can talk about this in the morning if you're up to it."

"… Thank you," the younger Winchester nodded his head.

Still, Dean chose not to speak at all. The two brothers were guided towards the stairs. They climbed up while Cassie and Tracee lingered. "Thank you, Sir Robert," she spoke, turning her eyes away from the departure of the brothers. She lightly scratched at her neck. "I didn't know where else to go." Bobby shook his head a bit and told her it was fine. "By the way, this is our friend. Her name's Cassie Robinson. She does know about her this." Her hand gestured vaguely in the direction of where the books were stacked. Did that mean all of the books were related to this supernatural world?

"Hello," Cassie greeted.

"She drove us here. And I've already tested her," Tracee mentioned. "Can she stay, too?"

"I already said its fine," Bobby stated. "Go on up. We'll talk in the morning."

Tracee sighed lightly before turning to walk up the stairs. Cassie gave a half-smile to their host, and then followed her friend up. Tracee went down the hallway, whispering a solemn goodnight before opening a door at the far end. Cassie watched the door shut, realizing that she would not be sleeping alongside her friend. Well, she supposed it should have been expected. Obviously, she had wanted to comfort her boyfriend in his time of need. That left her with last bedroom, probably where Dean was.

Feeling her nerves suddenly rattle, Cassie moved a bit down the hallway before picking a door to open. Luckily, she had chosen correctly. She had come across another bedroom. Dean sat on the edge of the bed, blankly staring at the floor. Her nerves rattled harder. They were to be alone again. Her mind couldn't help but play the images of the previous time. Frowning, she shook the thoughts from her head and shut the door behind her. Dean hadn't flinched. "You should get some sleep," she told him. Again, no response. "Dean…?"

Holding back a grimace, she walked over to the bed. Her proximity hadn't deterred him from looking towards the floor. With a sigh, she lowered herself so that she could look him in the eye. He seemed to stare right through her. "Dean, come on, you have to sleep now." Cassie's urging received the same response he had given all night. Pursing her lips, she moved her hands towards him. If he wouldn't do it on his own, maybe she would have to take matters into her own hands. With an internal resolute nod, she lifted her hands. Palms touching his chest, she slid her hands upward to remove his jacket.

Dean reacted. It was the smallest of flinches, but he didn't resist the push of his jacket being removed. Cassie continued, tendrils of relief coursing through her. Things could quickly spiral out of his control if he had resisted. Maybe he even would have discovered how strong she truly was if she had had to snatch the jacket off. She tugged the jacket down his arms, completely separating it from his body, and then tossed it towards a nearby comfy chair. She would probably have to sleep there tonight. She didn't mind. Dean needed the bed more than she did.

Still, Dean made no move to lie back or turn over. He continued to stare down at the floor. Cassie almost huffed before unthinkingly lifting his chin with her curled index finger. This time, she couldn't hold back her grimace. She had seen Dean's face before, in the hospital, but having it this close made her realize how much damage he had truly taken. The dark bruises had faded a little, but the wide gashes remained scattered across his face. The swelling around his eyes had gone down, but his entire face still seemed puffy. Cassie frowned, wondering how he could do what he did on the daily basis. So many times, she had wondered that. So many times, she just couldn't bring herself to understand.

Before she could examine further—honestly, she had already decided to try to treat his face in the morning—Cassie felt his lips on hers. The familiar touch sent shivers down her back. She reared back, confused. "Dean-" The rest of her words were swallowed by his mouth again. More insistent then the first, he pressed hard against her mouth. The shivers raked through her body at a faster pace, and fire exploded within her. It had been too long, and the longing was too hard to ignore. She kissed him back, wrapping her arms around his neck, and poured just as much demand into him.

Dean gripped her waist as he hungrily kissed her, sitting up straight and lifting her from her position on the floor. Her legs automatically moved to straddle him. So strange. So exhilarating. So…  _Mine_. The thought startled her, but she was too wrapped up in the heated kiss to even think of wondering why the word had struck like lightning in her mind. She had missed him so much. His scent. His presence. His warmth. She just couldn't resist having him again.

Dean pushed and tugged her jacket off, tossing it somewhere behind her. Not breaking away, he learned back, taking her with him. Cassie, overcome with the intensity of the familiar buildup, didn't stop his fingers as they tugged up her shirt. She allowed the movement, and willing lifted her arms so her shirt could be taken off. Dean smashed his lips against hers as soon as they were visible. He began circling his hips underneath her, grinding his jean covered hardness against her throbbing core. A sharp gasp escaped her mouth, muffled by his unrelenting tongue.

Then suddenly, she was on her back. Dean hovered over her, hands squeezing her bra covered breasts. Her back readily arched for him as her legs spread, allowing him to tuck himself between. Again, she felt his hardness, and jolts of pure want reverberated through her body. His mouth found the skin of her neck. He aggressively kissed and sucked at her skin, whispering things she couldn't comprehend at the moment. Not through the haze of lust filling her mind and sweeping across her body. Dean then lifted himself. The separation caused a distinct wet pop to enter her ears. Slowly, Cassie opened her eyes to see him pulling his shirt off. She blinked twice as his hands quickly worked to unbutton her pants.

The few seconds it took for him to unzip was all it took for reason to slip in through the haze. Eyes widening, she felt the heat being replaced by the cold. Like a bucket of ice water had been thrown on her. She knew what this was. She recognized the intention. Oh God… He couldn't deflect. He couldn't pretend. So he reacted in the only way left. His default was to not feel anything towards the situation—to substitute those feelings with something else. It made her stomach screw painfully inside. "Dean-" His mouth was on her skin before she could attempt a complete interruption. Tickles of heat began forming again as his teeth grazed her shoulder and trailed back to her throat. She couldn't help the shuddering moan that left her. His fingers hooked around the top of her pants. In one fluid motion, her pants were discarded. The almost vicious swipe pushed her flats off as well. "Dean, wait-"

Once again, his lips crushed hers, and the scorching heat returned with a vengeance. Cassie gave in. Almost. The stab of reason and guilt overpowered thoughts of recoupling with him. So, scraping up the bits of her will, she grabbed both of his shoulders and finally pushed him. "Dean, stop!" she nearly shouted. The crack of her voice, as well as the resistance, effectively halted Dean's advances. He stared at her, panting heavily. Cassie stared up at him, just as winded. She swallowed and licked her lips, remnants of his taste still lingered. Shutting her eyes for a moment, she attempted to compose herself. "If…" she began in a whisper. "If this is what you need… we can keep going. But if this is… just a distraction—just a way for you to  _not_  deal, then I can't do that to you. I  _won't_."

It took several silent moments before the clouded, aimless stare changed. Cassie watched, almost relieved, as his gaze finally became clear. Then with thundering realization, Dean reared back, a choked gasp managed to escape his lips. "Shit, Cassie…! I'm-" He hurriedly removed himself from her. She heard him let out a ragged breath as he sat at the side of the bed. Frowning, Cassie sat up and turned towards him. His back was filled with tension. "I just-" Before he could say any more, she moved herself directly behind him, thighs lightly squeezing his sides. Her hands soothingly slid up and down his exposed back. He breathed out again, heavy, but smoother than last time. This continued for a little until Cassie realized that Dean had become relaxed under the slight massage. "I… I don't wanna talk."

"… I won't force you to," she told him. With a light sigh, she rested her chin on top of his right shoulder. "I know what it's like. I know what you're going through." Images of her father filled her mind. She sighed again. "At least, part of what you're going through. I understand. You don't have to talk."

After a beat of silence, Dean shifted his head, turning to the right to face her. Cassie lifted her chin from his shoulder and easily returned the questioning look. "Part…?" he repeated. "What do you mean?" She gave a wry smile and a knowing look.

"My dad didn't tell me a big secret before he died," she said. His eyes widened in surprise, and then narrowed and averted in apprehension. "I'm not going to tell anyone, Dean. But I know you lied to your brother when asked." He chuckled without humor.

"Could never lie to you," he muttered, turning his head back straight. At the moment, she couldn't tell if he was being cynical or just nostalgic. Cassie chose not to comment as she placed her chin back on his shoulder. He hadn't tensed again, so she took that as a good sign. Her right hand moved from his back to his right side, and slowly ran her fingers across his skin. Her left hand moved up, fingers lightly caressing the back of his neck. Dean sighed again. He didn't speak again for the longest time. "I don't know what to do, Cassie," he finally blurted. "… When Sam finds out, he's gonna freaking lose it! Why would he even  _tell_  me something like that?!"

"Is it that bad?" Cassie asked softly.

"Pretty damn bad, yeah," Dean retorted harshly.

Cassie bit back her own retort. It was easy to get riled up when Dean grew frustrated. It would be so easy to fall back to the arguing, which would no doubt lead to make up sex. Maybe, on some level, they both knew that. Maybe they brought it out in each other. But, this time, she wouldn't take the bait. She released a silent huff to calm her nerves. "I think… I think you should tell him," she advised.

"What? No!" Dean sharply turned to her. "Sam  _can't_  know!"

"Listen, you and your brother are close," Cassie stated. "If you become all hush-hush, then he's only gonna notice because he knows you so well. Then he'll prod you for information, and keep prodding until you either tell him in an explosive way, which will not be good for either of you,  _trust_   _me_ -" Her sharp words caused Dean to flinch. Maybe she had flinched, too. It had happened to them, after all. Cassie ignored the pangs of bitterness in her chest. "-or… You can calmly tell your brother this secret. He might throw a fit. He might get angry. However big this secret is, you would still have each other. At least you'll still be able to trust each other at the end of the day."

"So it'd be okay for him to be mad at dad?"

"That's up to him," she replied. "I don't know Sam well enough to predict how he might react." Dean scoffed lightly. "If you don't tell him, at least tell Tracee." His eyebrows knitted together. "She'll definitely get angry, but then you won't have to shoulder the weight of whatever this secret is by yourself."

"Why don't I just tell you?" Dean mumbled.

"… You don't want to talk," Cassie reminded him. He made a face, causing her to snort in amusement. Dean rolled his eyes, but looked as though he was suppressing a grin. "And because I'm too far from the situation. It wouldn't help you. I'm not blind, Dean. I can already see how heavy this whole thing is for you." Dean, normally so vibrant and full of energy—even on his lazy days—had been reduced to dullness and lethargy. No one bounces back from the death of a loved one, but Cassie got a sense it was more than that. She had a horrible feeling in her gut that this secret could be the beginning of a breakdown. No matter what, she didn't want him to hurt. Not again. "Sharing it will relieve some of that. I know it."

Dean sighed heavily, running his left hand through his hair. That same hand moved down to grip her right. A wonderful trill shot up her back. "I'll think about it," he eventually said. A small twinkle shone in his eyes, and for now, it mattered. Unable to help herself, Cassie leaned forward, pressing a faint kiss to his cheek. Her lips lingered far longer than she had wanted, but Dean hadn't seemed to mind. He stared at her for a long moment before sighing. "Let's… Let's just go to sleep." Cassie nodded in agreement and attempted to separate from him. He moved faster, twisting and laying down on the bed, arms pinning her to his body. "Together, I meant. Just sleeping, I swear."

"Okay," she agreed. At her compromise, Dean slowly loosened his grip on her. He kicked off his shoes as Cassie maneuvered herself into a more comfortable position. She sniffed lightly and snuggled closer. She had missed this, too. Her hand rested against Dean's chest, gently sliding her thumb up and down his pectoral region. Dean hummed in content. He had always liked when she did that. He mumbled a goodnight, and then his body settled. "Night, Dean," Cassie returned. For tonight, she was fine with this. For tonight, she could be his comfort.

 

0-0


	23. Foil & Suspicion

Tracee hummed lightly as her eyes read over the words of a particularly large book. She had spotted the beauty earlier in the morning, and had been engrossed ever since. It was a fascinating account of Greek supernatural creatures. The possibility of running into one was slim, but she still liked reading about them. There was nothing else better to do, anyway. Her best friend had left a few days, so her days were generally unoccupied now. Her nights normally consisted of consoling Sam, who had been refusing talk. Weird thing for someone like him, but he would mostly only request that she hold him. His days were spent lumbering around the house or finding something to read. Whether he actually read or not had remained to be seen. Why? Because under normal circumstances, Sam would have talked about his findings. It was becoming worrisome.

With Dean constantly under the Impala in order to fix it, and Bobby giving the boys their space to work through John's death, no one else had seemed to notice Sam's odd behavior. However, she would not pry. The death of loved ones was a tragic thing, and people reacted differently to it. She could recall that Sam hadn't talked about Jessica for a while either. It was his way to bottle things inside until they exploded all at once. Still, she had believed that he would, at least, talk to  _her_. Perhaps it was just an assumption, but…

A sigh left Tracee's mouth as she realized she had lost focus on the words of the page. He would come around eventually, she hoped. Eventually, he would give up on trying to force Dean to talk about John. She understood why he had been trying. They were in the same boat since it had been their father.  _Others_  wouldn't understand this fresh wound that had been left behind. Dean, of course, wasn't having it and had parried every attempt to get him to open up. The deflection would result in the explosion. On that, she was certain. And with Cassie gone, Tracee would be the only buffer. Fun times.

The sound of footsteps approaching shook thoughts of the oncoming storm from her mind. Tracee tore her gaze from the page. Her brow lifted as her eyes settled on the owner of the house. Bobby Singer. He had been gracious enough to let the three of them stay in his home for as long as needed. Call her skeptic, but she wondered when his graciousness would run out. The man stood at the threshold between the kitchen and living room, watching her steadily. He appeared as though he had something on his mind, and now was the time to voice that something. Feeling his intent, Tracee lowered the book onto the desk and gave her full attention to the man.

"Sir Robert, is there something you need from me?" she asked, casually. Admittedly, she hadn't spoken much to the man since arriving. Yes, she had relayed what had happened with John—because Dean and Sam had been too much of a mess, no matter how hard they tried to hide it—but other than that, their conversations consisted of polite greetings and cordial good nights. She supposed after a little over a week, Bobby could no longer contain his curiosity. After all, the only things he knew with certainty was that she traveled around with his friend's sons, her name, and her penchant for books. He had opened up his house to a stranger. Perhaps it bothered him a bit to know so little?

"It's Bobby," he corrected. It was an automatic response at this point. The look on his face when she finally got his name right without prompting would be delightful to see. For now, Tracee merely waited for the man to continue. "It's nothing, really," he lied. "Just wanted to thank you for cleaning the dishes for me."

"It's the least I can do since you're housing us," Tracee replied. "You've also allowed me to peruse your collection at my leisure. It's a shame I can't do more for you." Bobby chose not to speak further on the mater, so she took it upon herself to continue. "I'm sure you have become more than a little curious about me. I'm willing to give you information if that is what you want."

"… Yesterday, I saw something incredible," Bobby began. "The tiniest woman I've ever met lifted a wrecked car like it was nothing." Tracee narrowed her eyes. So she had been discovered, had she? Yesterday, she had been looking for a place to do her ritual. The land around Bobby's house wasn't the best place. Only walkways, and so she had moved a couple of vehicles to give her some space. She hadn't realized that she had had an observer. "But it's the weirdest thing. You see, I slipped her some holy water, and she didn't flinch. I gave her pure silverware, and she held it without discomfort. So it has me wondering..."

"So your question is… What am I?" Tracee asked. She clasped her hands over the pages of the book, giving the man a wry smile. "First off, let me apologize for not telling you sooner. What a shock it must've been."

"You've got that right."

"Secondly," Tracee continued, ignoring his remark. "Samuel and Dean already know what I am. We found out together."

"Together?" Bobby repeated.

"Yes. I had no idea until I met them," she explained. "All this-" She gestured to her surroundings. Books—maybe thousands of them—she had no idea existed until the two Winchesters appeared in her life. "-I was not privy to prior to meeting them. So suddenly gaining the powers of a… Slayer—well, I hid it the best I could. Have you read about Slayers before, Sir Robert?"

"Never heard of them."

"Well, let me fill you in on what I know so far," Tracee said. So she did. She told him everything that she possibly could. The activation of Slayers in 2003. The initial meeting with Missouri. The Slayer Handbook. The abilities of Slayers, along with their sole purpose in life. Not that she had ever agreed with the sworn duty bit, especially since there were so many of them walking around. It was very much a choice nowadays. She had already resigned herself to this life for as long as Dean and Sam were. If the day came that they decided to quit, she would quit along with them. As far as she was concerned, she was only in it to protect them. Somehow, she had come to vigorously care for both of them. "And so here I am, fighting evil three years after I gained these powers."

"Let's say I buy this magical girl saves the world hoopla…" Bobby began, crossing his arms. "If you're really this destined warrior of good, then how did Dean and Sam manage to find you?" Tracee blinked once as she furrowed her brow. "From what you told me, hunters and Slayers don't come into contact often. Hell, maybe not at all. Makes sense because if a Slayer did her job—duty, whatever—a hunter would have no reason to go hunting wherever she is, right? Wouldn't even know there's trouble in the first place, right?" Tracee nodded her head, not quite understanding his point. "So how did two hunters stumble into your town? We only go searching if bad, unexplained things happen, so you must have done something to gain their attention."

An enlightened look crossed Tracee's face. Then a small smile. Bobby Singer was quite the observant one. Perhaps she should have realized sooner how great his attention to details skill was. His intellect rivaled Sam's. Perhaps even surpassed it. She anticipated many long talks with the man if the need arose. "Nothing bad or unexplainable happened," Tracee told him. "They didn't find me through rumors or newspaper articles. But I don't think I can tell you their source."

"Why not?" Bobby asked, narrowing his eyes.

"Both of them probably view it as a secret, Sir Robert. I dislike revealing secrets that aren't my own," she stated. "I'd think it would better to hear it from one of them, yes?" Bobby huffed. "If that makes you mistrust me, I would understand if you wanted to give me more tests. Latin words, salt, iron, more silver—I'll pass whatever you throw at me. I wouldn't want you to be uncomfortable in your own house." He looked as though he was considering it, but then shook his head.

" _Nah_ , don't mind me," he said. "I'm just a paranoid bastard."

"No harm done. In this world, it could never hurt to be cautious," Tracee said, and then grinned. "If you'd like, I can get my handbook so you can look through it? Call it an offering of trust." Before Bobby had time to reply, he was cut off by the ringing of her cell phone. "Excuse me," she said as she pulled the phone from the pocket of her denim jacket. She idly wondered if she should try to get a new one as she flipped it open. "Hello…?"

" _Hey, Tracee_ ," Sam's voice came through. A sliver of elation brushed against her heart at the sound. She smiled widely as she returned his greeting with more enthusiasm. " _Hey_ ," he repeated, smile in his voice. 'Just ask her already!' was heard in the background. Tracee rolled her eyes, recognizing the annoyed voice of Dean Winchester. He had been in a quick to exasperate mood since Cassie had left. "Um…" He cleared his throat. " _I got an address from one of dad's phones. Me and Dean decided to check it out. You in_?"

"Oh course, darling, but why?"

" _We think it might lead to more information about this demon_ ," Sam answered. Then he scoffed. " _At least,_ I _do. It's not that far away, but we'll ask Bobby to borrow one of his vehicles for the trip._ "

"Hold on—he's right here. I'll ask him," Tracee said. She pressed the phone to her neck. "Samuel and Dean want to borrow a vehicle. Is it okay?" The man shrugged and nodded. Tracee lifted the phone back to her ear. "He says its okay. I'll meet you two at the entrance."

" _Okay, see you soon_."

" _Mm_. See you in a bit." Tracee snapped her phone shut with a chuckle on her lips. When she looked up, Bobby was staring at her. "What?" she questioned. He chose not to say anything and shook his head. " _What_? I can't be smitten by my lover now?" Bobby only shook his head again.

"I'll get a key for you," he said, and then walked off. Tracee was left there, rolling her eyes and grinning.

She just might start learning his name.

 

0-0

 

Cassie had stayed for three days before she had been forced to go back home. Her explanation had been something about work. Dean hadn't really been listening. It had been another goodbye that he had to suffer through. Or, at least, he had thought he would have to suffer. After three days of sleeping together—actually sleeping—and not talking—though, there had been a few times, honestly—he had braced himself for the same type of goodbye. Instead, after saying her farewells to Tracee, Cassie had turned to him and had given him a hug. The action had completely thrown him, especially after she had told him that they would see each other again. He had blurted out, a little bitterly, that he had thought she had been a realist. Cassie hadn't snapped back. She had only smiled at him.

_I'm still a realist, but things are different now…_

As vague as her words had been, Dean couldn't help but think their goodbye hadn't been so one-sided. Not like it had been before. Then she had kissed his cheek, and then left. The rest of the week had been spent under the Impala, attempting to get it in working condition. He still didn't know where the two of them stood, but that small kiss had been something he had been thinking about all week. With all the bad crap he had to think about, that kiss had been the one bright light in his mind.

Dean scowled as he put the vehicle in park. Poetry in his head? What's next—serenading over the phone? He was definitely blaming Tracee for it. It must have been her influence, along with her insistence to watch chick flicks 'because it's only fair.' He must have scoffed out loud because Sam turned towards him, asking what the problem was. Dean frowned and thought quickly. No way he was about to tell his brother his true thoughts. "Nothing—I just feel like a friggin' soccer mom," he complained. It worked. The current mode of transportation was a minivan. It wasn't even a newer model either. It was a beat up old vehicle that shouldn't have seen the light of another day. It even had the two wooden panels across the sides. And honestly, it was embarrassing to drive it after years of being behind the wheel of his Impala.

"It's the only one Sir Robert had to offer," Tracee chimed from the back. "The rest weren't operational. Believe me—I'd rather be riding around in a corvette."

"Most corvettes don't have backseats, Trace."

"I'm pretty sure I wouldn't mind sitting on Samuel's lap, Dean."

Rolling his eyes, because he had walked into that one, Dean opened the driver side door and got out. He heard his brother chuckling as he moved to get out, too. Shaking his head, he turned to examine their destination.  _Harvelle's Roadhouse_. It wasn't the worst place he had ever been. And it had a western saloon type of feel to it, so bonus points there. Sam and Tracee came to stand at his side, both scrutinizing the seemingly rundown bar. "Looks closed…" Tracee mentioned. "Maybe we should come back during business hours?"

" _Nah_ , we're already here," Dean stated. He turned towards his brother. "Hey, did you bring the-" He stopped, noticing Sam was already pulling out his set of tools. "Good." Dean took the pack of tools and headed towards the front door. Tracee sighed lightly, and headed towards the left.

"I'm going to look around," she said as Dean lowered himself to pick at the lock. "Don't get into trouble without me."

"Be careful," Sam told her.

Dean merely grunted at her departure. Within a few seconds, he had picked the lock and the door was pushed open. He and Sam entered the bar, shutting the door behind them. The place was deserted, but it wasn't different from any other small bar they had ever gone, too. Set up was the same. The sound of insects getting zapped caught his attention, but he soon returned his gaze to the rest of the bar. Dean handed the pack back to Sam as they walked further in. His brother pointed out a pool table. There was a guy on top, seemingly passed out.

Dean continued to look around as they approached the man. "Hey, buddy…?" Sam called out. There was no response. Not even a flinch. "I'm guessing that isn't Ellen." Dean scoffed out an agreement. For now, it didn't feel like this guy would be trouble, but he did feel the need to find a stick and start poking. Sam walked away, heading for a door on the right. Dean watched him go. When the door shut behind his brother, he backed up and approached the actual bar.

He hadn't been there for two seconds before he felt something hard at his lower back. Dean twitched. Crap. Someone had snuck up on him. How? He had searched, lazily, sure, but it should have been enough. Where had they come from? "Oh, God, please let that be a rifle," he pleaded, jokingly. The sound of the rifle cocking in preparation entered his ears.

"No, I'm just  _real_  happy to see you," a voice mocked in return. Feminine. Young, too, judging from how high pitched the voice had been. "Don't move," she demanded, jabbing the barrel of the rifle harder than necessary. Still, he wasn't worried. This was a situation he could easily get out of. This chick stood too close—an amateur mistake. Plus, he didn't think she would readily use her weapon since she hadn't fired it off yet.

"Not moving—copy that," Dean told her. After a heartbeat of a second, he swiftly turned, yanking the rifle from the girl's hands. Her mouth dropped open in shock. Dean took the time to look at the girl as he unloaded the gun. She was young, after all. Blonde, and seemingly taller than Tracee. And that's all he could see before her fist came flying. The impact landed squarely between the eyes. For more than a moment, he was rendered blind. This blond chick hit harder than she looked capable of. The rifle was wrenched back from his grip. "Fuck…!" he shouted. Shaking his head, he blinked rapidly. "I need some help in here!" He hoped his brother could hear him. Or Tracee, maybe. Eh, maybe not the tiny tank. Sam was a lot more subtle, and could probably explain the situation before shots were fired. "I can't see. I can't even  _see_!"

"Sorry, I'm a little tied up right now," Sam stated. Dean turned to look only to realize that his brother was also being held at gunpoint. He was led out of the backroom by an older blonde woman. She shared a resemblance to the blonde chick behind him. Dean scowled as he held his nose. His watery eyes turned back to the younger blonde, noting the smug smirk on her face.

"Who are you?" the older blonde asked.

"We're-" Sam didn't a chance to finish the introduction. The sound of the door opening and closing drew all of their attention. Tracee stood at the entrance, eyes darting from one brother to the other. The longer she stared, the more her frown became noticeable. Dean recognized that look. He had seen it plenty of times. It only came when one of them was in danger.  _Ruh-roh, Raggy_. "Tracee, wait…!" Sam attempted to dissuade her next action.

She did not wait. In fact, she blinked once, and then moved forward. Her hand snatched up something from the bar top and flung it towards the older woman. It nailed her directly in the forehead and she crumbled to the floor. "Mom!" A shriek left the younger girl's mouth as she swiveled the rifle in Tracee's direction. However, she had already made her approach. Her fingers curled around the barrel of the gun, aiming it towards the ceiling. In the same motion, she delivered a vicious kick to the girl's abdomen, sending her flying without the gun. The blonde crashed into a wooden beam and fell to the floor in a heap.

It all happened in a blink, and if Dean had blinked, he would have missed what happened. He choked out a gasp as he backed away from the Slayer. Sometimes, he supposed that his mind forgot about it. Tracee was human  _plus_. She was stronger than most. She could move quicker than most. She could be more dangerous than most. Inhaling deep through her nose, she lowered her leg, and then threw the rifle to the side. The weapon rattled against the floor, and Dean found himself flinching at the noise. "What was the  _last_  thing I told you?" she asked, left eyebrow cocked up high.

"Trace-"

"What was it?!" she interrupted, zero to British in point three seconds. Dean sighed heavily, and then repeated what she had told them both, but in a monotone. "And yet here we are, not even  _two_  minutes later—guns pointed at you!" She laughed without humor. It almost sounded crazed. "Are you-Are you trying to drive me to drink? Is that it?"

"Relax, Trace, we had the situation handled."

"You. Are.  _Bleeding_."

"What?" Dean reached up, fingers coming into contact with something warm and wet. He pulled his fingers from under his nose to see the blood. He had thought he had been tagged between the eyes, but apparently, his nose had been hit as well. It didn't feel broken, though. "Oh… Lucky shot?" he said with a shrug.

"Luc-" Her arm suddenly shot up, stopping a knife from reaching her eye. Dean drew in a surprised breath as he heard Sam shout Tracee's name. She had caught the knife by its blade. It had cut through her skin, and her blood dripped from the sudden wound. Tracee's expression hardened as she looked towards where the knife had been launched from. Dean turned, eyeing the younger blonde that had  _not_  been rendered unconscious because of the kick, after all. Her brown eyes had become as sharp as the knife she had thrown.

"What are you?" she nearly growled.

"I could ask you the same question," Tracee said, lowering her hand. The knife clattered to the floor. "I know just how much strength to use to knock out a twig like you. But you're standing like I didn't even hit you." The blonde took a step forward.

"Hey, now let's just calm down!" Dean advised, blocking her view of Tracee.

The blonde did not calm down. She sprang forward, moving so fast that Dean could barely comprehend her pushing him aside to get at Tracee. Suddenly, it was just off the floor and crashing into his brother. They hurriedly untangled themselves and stood up. Dean watched as the two went head to head. A flurry of punches and kicks were exchanged, and he could barely keep up. "You think she's a demon?" Sam questioned in a whispered.

"Only one way to find out where we're standing," Dean replied.

"Right…" Sam nodded. " _Deus_!" His shout only seemed to break apart the two girls. On opposite sides of the room, they both turned their attention to Sam. The blonde did not have a different set of eyes. Panting, her eyes darted back over to Tracee. Clearly, she was in a state of confusion.

"Not a demon then…?" Tracee said. A smirk spread across her face. "That means I don't have to hold back anymore."

"Y-You were holding back?" the blonde stammered.

" _Yup_."

Tracee suddenly disappeared from view. In her place, there was a foot-shaped dent in the floorboard. In the next second, the blonde was soaring towards the entrance. She crashed down hard on top of a table, breaking it. Holy crap! Dean turned towards the right to see Tracee had stood where the blonde had been before. He hadn't seen a thing. Mouth open, he watched as the tiny tank walked towards the blonde, who scrambled to stand. Before she could, though, Tracee reached her. She lifted the blonde by the front of her shirt, and then slammed her fist into the younger girl's jaw. Or would have if the girl hadn't blocked with her palm.

That's when Dean realized that the girl was bleeding from her mouth. The blood ran down her chin and dripped to the floor. She was panting heavily. When had that happened? Tracee seemed perfectly fine. "Your reflexes are good," she complimented, and then she reared back her head and smacked her forehead against the blonde's face. She fell to the floor, grabbing at her nose with both hands. "Shame you use them like a crutch, dear sister," Tracee continued, crossing her arms.

"S-Sister…?"

The blonde clutched the lower half of her face. Blood leaked through her fingers. Sister… That was a term Dean hadn't been expecting. But he suddenly had a very vivid image of a teenage girl with braids, on her back and laughing outright about becoming a  _sister_. Wait… Tracee's dream—her yearlong one. Hadn't she referred to herself as 'sister?' "Wait, sister?" Sam blurted. "You mean like another Slayer?" He seemingly made the connection quicker. "She's a Slayer?"

"Too strong to be a shapeshifter," Tracee stated. "Too strong to be anything other than."

"I'm not a shapeshifter! Who or what are you?!"

"Relax, alright?" Dean tried to pacify her. "It looks like we're all on the same side, here, okay?"

"Same side?! She attacked me and my mom!"

"Well, you and your mother shouldn't have put guns on my Winchesters!" Tracee retorted, clearly annoyed. "Slayer or not, that's something I will  _never_  tolerate. I'm trying  _not_  to beat the shit out of you for your mistake, dear sister."

"Wait, wait… Winchesters?" the blonde asked. "As in  _John_  Winchester?"

"Yeah," Dean and Sam confirmed in unison.

The girl glanced at them, but then her eyes turned back to Tracee. She stood up, already having lost the trembles her body had had during the fight? Beat down? One-sided battle? She took her hands from her face, and in the process smeared the dark red liquid. Tracee didn't move from her position—barely flinched. The blonde was just a bit taller than her, but the height clearly wasn't all that intimidating. "My mom knows John Winchester. Her name is Ellen Harvelle. I'm Jo Harvelle." Her gulp was noticeable, but her eyes remained steel. "What's a goddamn Slayer?"

 

0-0

 

The woman, Ellen Harvelle, winced as she pressed a rag filled with ice to her forehead. Sam felt pretty guilty about it. She had been out for more than ten minutes. Tracee had thrown a napkin dispenser. The impact caused a dark bruise right in the middle of her forehead. Of course, his girlfriend had apologized for the misunderstanding, but honestly, she probably didn't feel remorse, and would probably do it again without thought. Sam internally sighed as he glanced at his girlfriend. She sat on his right side. Dean sat on the left. The three of them were at the bar, having just explained what happened whilst Ellen had been unconscious.

The explanation had been lies. Jo had been vehement that her mother never find out what really went down. Her mother did not know about the superhuman abilities that her daughter possessed, and Jo wanted to keep it that way. She had cleaned up the mess, replaced the broken table, and washed away the blood. During that process, Tracee had explained the Slayer origin. Jo hadn't commented on any of the information heard. She had took it all in stride. Sam supposed it was genetic.

Ellen had taken the hit to her head pretty lightly, and had even praised Tracee on her aim once introductions were out of the way. The older woman confirmed that she knew their father, and had behaved in a friendly way afterwards. So that was the reason Sam felt a little guilty about her getting hurt and that he had lied to her. And then came the awkward conversation of mentioning John's death. As vague as it had been, the implications had been enough. He had almost missed Ellen's subtle look of distraught. It made Sam wonder just how close 'like family' had been to her.

The following silence was awkward. Ellen and Jo were now behind the counter, processing, he guessed. Inwardly, Sam shook his head. Somehow, this hovel seemed like it wouldn't be the only thing their dad kept away from them. A resting stop for hunters? Not once had John ever mentioned it. Sam cleared his throat lightly, hoping to break the tension. "So, look, if you can help…" he began. "We could use all the help we can get." He felt his brother's eyes on him, incredulity flashing across his face. Sam might not be willing to risk it all anymore, but he damn sure wasn't about to roll over and let the Demon get away with murdering his loved ones. He had to try, and that meant seeking outside help.

"Well,  _we_  can't," Ellen snapped out of her daze. She breathed in deeply, taking the homemade ice pack from her head. She gestured towards the back of the tavern with a tilt. "But Ash will." Furrowing his brow, Sam leaned back and focused on the pool table. Really, he had forgotten about the body that had been using the surface as a bed. The man hadn't stirred at all during the commotion. "Ash!" Her shout made the man groggily answer with a grunt as he sat up.

"What?" he asked, obviously not realizing his surroundings. He twisted his body towards them, erratically pointing his fingers. "Closing time…?"

" _That's_  Ash? The one who can help us?" Sam asked in disbelief.

"He's a genius," Ellen said.

" _Him_ …?!" Dean was just as surprised. The guy didn't really look the part. Not to be rude, but Ash looked like a walking stereotype, complete with the mullet. He couldn't believe people were still walking around with that particular hairstyle in this day and age. The man in question fumbled and ultimately fell from the pool table. With an exclamation of 'I'm okay!' he gave a thumbs up. "You have gotta be kidding me."

"No, no, they said genius—let's see where this goes," Tracee sounded unusually enthused by the prospect. "Shall I retrieve Poppa-Winchester's findings?" Before either of them could answer, she was already heading for the door. "Be back in a tick." True to her word, she came back moments later with the accordion folder with everything they could compile from John's research. By this time, Ash had wiped the sleep from his face and sat at the end of the bar. Ellen had gone to the back and was no longer visible. "There's everything Poppa-Winchester gathered on this Capital D. Let's see what you've got,  _genius_." She sat down beside Sam again before sliding the folder down the bar towards Ash.

"This guy's no genius, Trace," Dean protested. He crossed his arms, a sarcastic grin on his face. "Come on—he's a  _Lynyrd Skynyrd_  roadie!"

"I like you," Ash chuckled, not taking the comment to heart. Dean's grin turned a bit less sarcastic as he thanked him. His eyes shifted, looking pass Sam. He stared directly at Tracee. "And you…  _Trace_ …" Sam found himself not liking the way her nickname came from his mouth. "I like the way you move—very  _Valkyrie_ -like. I like that."

"Valkyrie,  _huh_ …?" Tracee said, giggle in her voice. Startled by the slight purr, Sam turned to her. She didn't seem to be paying him any attention. Her brown eyes were focused solely on the  _Joe Dirt_  impersonator. "Haven't been called that before." What? Was she  _flirting_  right now? He could tell she was. With  _him_? What? Sam opened his mouth to say something, but before he could, a glass was slammed down in front of him. He sharply turned his gaze to Jo, but her glare was directed at the man on the end.

"Ash, you've only ever called  _me_  Valkyrie," she stated, nearly huffing in indignation.

"Well, you all must move alike," he commented, only glancing at the younger girl. His gaze then went back to Tracee. "Except you move with a lot more precision—a lot more poise. Ready to strike down her foes at any given time. Someone truly ready to choose who lives and who dies… Very sexy."

"Thank you,  _Ash_ ," Tracee replied, purr become more prominent. She knew his name already?! "So you know then? About Slayers?"

"Is that the true name?"

"Kinda liking Valkyrie better," Tracee said. The two shared a chuckle. "But yes, Slayers are what we are."

"Then yeah, about Jo… and now you. Only met the both of you so far. But you… It's like drinking the smoothest moonshine for the first time."

" _Ash_...!" Jo almost hissed.

"Back off!" Dean protested the flirting.

"Spoken for!" Sam exclaimed at the same time. "Can you get something out of this or not?" he asked, index and middle fingers jabbing towards the folder.

"My apologies, I meant no harm," Ash said.

Using both hands, he pulled out the papers and such from the file. While he sorted through dad's stuff, Sam sharply turned his focus on Tracee. She finally noticed. "What?" she asked, innocently. "He's cute." Her careless shrug irritated him even more. "Don't give me that look. You're still the cutest, darling." Despite how he felt, Sam couldn't stop the way his cheeks flushed. Tracee had never flirted with another man before—at least, not in his presence—so to see her actively doing it with  _Ash_  made him feel some type of way.

"Come on—this crap ain't real," Ash commented, drawing Sam's attention again. "Ain't nobody can track a demon like this." Sam scoffed, lightly, muttering that John had been able to. Ash blinked, and then returned his focus on the papers. He sighed through his nose. "These are nonparametric statistical overviews, cross-spectrum correlations." He had spoke fast. Sam wondered if Dean had caught all that and understood. "I mean…  _damn_." Ash sounded impressed by the findings. "They're signs—omens!  _Uh_ , if you can track them, you can track this demon—you know, like crop failures, electrical storms. Ever been struck by lightning? It ain't fun."

"Can you track it or not?" Sam asked.

"Yeah, with this, I think so," Ash answered. "But it's gonna take time.  _Uh_ , give me… fifty-one hours." He gathered up the contents of the folders and turned in his seat. He stood up without another word and headed off.

"Hey, man…!" Dean called out, halting the departure. Ash turned around. "By the way, I,  _uh_ , dig the haircut."

"All business up front," he replied, sliding a hand through his hair. "Party in the back." Then he took his leave. Sam, and his brother, was left with their mouths hanging open. There were truly a lot of different people in the world. A giggle came from his right. Apparently, Tracee found the whole thing amusing.

"Wow,  _what_  a guy," she commented. "You know, Samuel, I wouldn't mind if you grew out your hair like that." Sam turned to her, completely unimpressed. "I'm kidding, darling." Jo suddenly slammed her hands down in front of Tracee. Once the younger girl had her attention, she asked to speak to Tracee alone. "How old are you, Bo?"

"It's  _Jo_ ," she snapped back. "What does it matter?"

"Because I feel like I'm talking to a sixteen year old."

Clearly, the other Slayer took offense to that, but she grit her teeth, and then breathed harshly through her nose. "Can we just-" She took another breath. "Can we just talk? Outside?" She turned her head, seemingly looking for her mother's return. "About this Slayer stuff… please?" Tracee shrugged her shoulders, and then moved to get up from the barstool. Jo led the way to the entrance. The two left without a backwards glance. He hoped they wouldn't fight again. It had been brutal the first time, and he hadn't been able to keep up with their speed at all. The chances of anyone being able to stop them from going at it seemed slim at best.

"Great," Dean grumbled, standing from his own barstool. "What the heck are we supposed to do for fifty-one hours?" He stalked off just as Ellen came from the back, carrying a glass pitcher with a white substance inside. Maybe sugar or salt—Sam couldn't tell from his point of view. However, the movement of the older woman made his eyes catch a slim folder with angry red letters on the front. It was on the counter, nestled between the wall and a police scanner. He had recognized the word 'murdered.'

"Hey, Ellen, what is that?" Sam questioned, pointing. The woman attempted explain why she had a police scanner in her bar. "No, no, no—I meant the,  _um_ , the folder," he clarified. Ellen turned from her task of pouring the salt into a shaker. She looked directly to where he had been pointing. Then she went to grab it.

" _Uh_ … I was gonna give it to a friend of mine," Ellen stated, walking towards him. She set the file down on the bar. "But take a look if you want."

"Thanks," Sam said. He immediately began looking through the file. The more he read, the more he thought this could be their thing—a possible hunt. The eyewitness, a child, had told local authorities that the killer had vanished into thin air. Of course, the testimonies had been written off as trauma, but it was usually the written off testimonies that triggered a red flag for hunters. Still, why did it have to be a  _clown_? Sam shuddered internally as he stood up. He gathered the papers back into the file. "Hey, Dean, I've got something."

Sam didn't receive a response, so he looked around the bar. His brother had gotten comfortable in a chair next to the window. With his arms crossed over his chest and his head tilted back, Dean appeared to have dozed off during the time it took for Sam to come to the conclusion that the murders were a job. Stifling an eye roll, because he was pretty sure he hadn't spent that much time reading, Sam walked over to his brother. Without warning, he kicked at the chair. "What?" Dean groused, not bothering to open his eyes or move at all.

"A few murders not far from here that Ellen caught wind of—looks to me like they might be a hunt," he told him. Dean only shrugged his shoulders, not attempting to move anything else. Sam rolled his eyes this time. "Let's go check it out. We've got time to kill." Finally, Dean opened his eyes, and then sat up straight. He sighed heavily, and then stood.

"Fine, let's get Trace."

Within a few minutes, they headed out the door. Sam almost immediately began looking for his girlfriend. However, it was Dean that had called for her. She came from around the tavern, along with Jo. With a smile on her face, she walked towards them while the other girl headed in without speaking. At least, there hadn't been more blood. "Are we leaving already?" Tracee asked, coming to a stop in front of them.

"Actually, we've picked up a job," Sam stated. "It's not far. Hopefully, by the time we're done, Ash will be done."

"Great. Let's go," Tracee agreed. She eyed the file in his hands before holding her hand out expectedly. Sam almost chuckled as he transferred the file to her. "What are we looking at?" she questioned, eyes darting across the information. While she did that, Sam opened the side door up the minivan for her. Barely paying attention, she climbed in. After sliding the door shut, he and Dean climbed in the front seat with Dean taking the driver side.

"A couple was murdered a few towns over. From eye witness accounts, it looks like it's a man dressed as a clown," Sam explained as Dean started up the van. His brother scoffed obnoxiously and voiced his incredulity about the situation. "Yeah, he left the daughter unharmed and killed the parents. Ripped them to pieces, actually."

"Says here that the family was at a carnival the night of the murder," Tracee chimed in as they pulled off. "The Cooper Carnival. This article seems to think it's just a man in a costume."

"But the cops don't have any viable leads," Sam pointed out. A hum of agreement came from the back of the van. She was still reading, it appeared. "And at the time of the murders, all the employees were tearing down shop—alibis all around."

"I guess it didn't help that the girl said she saw the clown vanish," Tracee muttered. "Wonder if it's a spirit, and what motivation it could have to just kill the parents. Ripping them to pieces seems like overkill…" She trailed off. Sam could tell the gears were turning. Maybe she would start to ignore them in favor of reading.

"Well, I know what Sammy's thinking," Dean said. "'Why did it have to be clowns?'" The comment had been right on the mark, and Sam huffed in annoyance. His brother, amused, laughed outright. "You didn't think I still remembered, did you?"

"What are you talking about?" Tracee asked.

"Oh, Trace, don't tell me you've never noticed Sam crying at the sight of Ronald McDonald on the TV," Dean said.

"I do not cry!" Sam protested, crossing his arms.

"Wait… You're afraid of  _clowns_? You never told me that."

"Yeah, it's not something I really wanna say when I'm trying to impress a girl," he replied. Tracee hummed again, but he honestly didn't know what to make of it right now. The thought of clowns made his stomach flop. Sam crossed his arms and swallowed hard. "And… And I'm not  _afraid_!" he insisted. "They just… They just make me uncomfortable, that's all."

"Yeah, if by uncomfortable you mean hiding under the covers and waiting for the McDonalds commercials to be over, then sure," Dean chuckled.

"At least, I'm not afraid of flying," Sam retorted.

"Planes  _crash_ , Sam!" Dean completely lost all his mirth.

"And apparently clowns  _kill_ ," he stated, glaring at his brother.

An awkward silence fell over the car after that. No one liked their worst fears being brought to light. Sam had half a mind to turn back to see Tracee's reaction, but he was already so embarrassed that she had found out at all. He pursed his lips and stared out of the window, hoping his fear wouldn't be brought up again. "Okay…" Tracee began, shuffling the papers in the file. "There were other cases like this one." Fortunately, she moved on. "In 1981, there was the Bunker Brothers Circus. Same as this one—parents dead with surviving children. Happened three different times, very close to where the circus was set up." She hummed again. "I thought spirits were normally tied to a specific thing. Why is this one—if it is a spirit—moving around so much?"

"Cursed object, maybe?" Dean suggested. "Maybe it attached itself to something, and the carnival is just taking it along." A paranormal scavenger hunt, he couldn't help but voice the slight irritation out loud. Truthfully, he was more than glad to shift the conversation into familiar territory. "Well, this case was your idea… Why is that, by the way? You were awfully quick to jump on this job."

"So?"

" _So_ , it's not like you, that's all," Dean explained. Sam shifted in his seat, not understanding the point of his brother's questions. "I thought you were hell-bent on leather on the Demon hunt."

"I'm not hell-bent, Dean," Sam denied. "But I don't wanna sit on my hands while we wait for more information on the Demon. Dad didn't do it. We shouldn't either. Saving people, hunting things—it's what dad would have wanted us to do."

"What  _dad_  would have wanted?"

"Yeah," he answered with a shrug. Dean didn't response to that. He just kept his eyes focused on the road again. "So?" Sam prompted, knitting his eyebrows together in confusion. It was like his brother disagreed. That whole saving people, hunting things bit came from Dean, who had most likely got it from John. Dean had said it more than once, and now he seemed hesitant on agreeing. Why? But his brother only shook his head.

"Nothing," he said.

Sam stared suspiciously for a moment, but ultimately decided not to question Dean's shift in behavior out loud. He took a deep breath, and then focused outside. Obviously, his brother didn't want to talk. Yes, he often didn't want to, and normally, Sam would ignore that, but honestly, he didn't want to talk about their dad so soon after their almost argument at Bobby's. Dean said he was fine, but he couldn't be, could he? He hadn't spoken about John, not really, ever since they had burned his body. It wasn't good for him to keep something like what happened bottled up. This was the one thing Dean  _needed_  to talk about. Sam needed to talk about it, too… But for now, he kept his mouth shut and let the outside world go rushing by.

The minivan finally arrived at its destination. Dean put the vehicle in park and peered out of his open window. They were at the entrance to the carnival. It didn't seemed to be open at the moment. It was still pretty early in the morning, and probably wouldn't open until it was closer to noon. Scattered across the area, there were people moving around, seemingly in preparation for the opening. "Check it out—five-o," Dean observed. Sam leaned forward to get a good look. But Tracee had unbuckled herself from her seat and had chosen to lean forward as well, hands resting on the arm rest between the two front seats.

"They're not in uniform," she stated. "Must not be a trivial thing then. I think they might be detectives. Think we can get information from them?"

"Let's do it," Dean said, getting out of the car. Tracee, in her enthusiasm, did not wait for Sam to open up the door for her. She, too, got out and followed Dean towards where the detectives were. Sighing to himself, Sam climbed out of the minivan. He chose to walk ahead. The detectives were in the middle of talking to two clowns. Sam wasn't sure if he could stand there without reacting to their presence, so it was better if he steered clear for the moment.

He stood near a large ride, waiting for Dean and Tracee to return from gathering information. With his hands shoved in his pockets, he warily watched his surroundings. Sam did not want anyone sneaking up on him, least of all a clown. His breath caught in his throat, noticing a short woman walking towards him. Normally, it wouldn't bother him, but she was dressed as a clown. He swallowed hard, feeling himself become paralyzed. As if sensing something off, the woman stopped and just  _stared_.

Sam clenched his teeth, resisting the intense urge to run. He curled his fingers into fist as the woman continued staring. Oh, God… Why had he come here? This was a mistake. This was the worst job imaginable. Clowns? Why had he thought he could do this? Oh no. His throat was closing. He was getting dizzy.  _Ohgodohgodohgodohgod_! Just as he thought he might pass out, the woman twitched, and then walked off. Sam released the breath he had been holding and shut his eyes in relief.

"Did you get her number?"

The familiar sound of his brother's voice caused him to flinch and sharply turn to face him. Then he recognized the words. "Shut up," Sam told him. Dean only grinned. Beside him, Tracee wore a small frown. Sam cleared his throat and looked down towards the ground. "So… More murders?"

" _Shyeah_ , there were two last night while we were driving here," Tracee answered. "A couple died while their child survived. They were both ripped to pieces like the last two."

"Who fingered a clown?" Sam murmured, still feeling his heart racing.

"… Darling, are you okay?" Tracee asked.

"I'm fine," he said. Dean and Tracee exchanged a weird look. "What?"

"You just said who  _fingered a clown_ ," his brother said.

"No, I didn't. I said  _figured_." Again, the look between his brother and his girlfriend was exchanged. Then Tracee's expression shifted to concern. "Look—I'm fine," Sam told her. "Can we just figure out what we're gonna do please? I mean, finding a cursed object is like looking for a needle in a stack of needles. It could be anything." Dean opened his mouth, wicked grin on his face. Tracee nudged his arm hard.

" _Ow_! I wasn't even gonna-" She crossed her arms and glared at him. "Fine, fine—whatever." His brother cleared his throat. "I  _figure_  the EMF will pick something up, so I'll just scan everything." Sam decided to ignore the exchange.

"Oh, good," he said with as much sarcasm as he could muster. "That's nice and inconspicuous."

"Guess we'll just have to blend in," Dean retorted.

He walked off before explaining what that meant. Sam was about to follow after him, but Tracee caught his arm. He turned to face her, realizing the look of concern hadn't left her eyes. "Samuel," she began, sounding uncertain. "I know you said that you're fine, but I don't think you are. If you want to sit this one out-"

"No!" Sam protested. Her frown deepened as she released his arm. Now he felt bad. He took in a deep breath to calm his nerves. The frantic beating of his heart had slowed. He was fine. "I'm good… really. Don't worry. I can do this job."

"I just don't want you to force yourself if you don't have to," Tracee said. "I can see that this is more than uncomfortable for you. This is a  _phobia_." She was right. It was an honest-to-God irrational fear. He couldn't help it, and his body had already betrayed him despite his effort to appear fine. "I… I wish you would have told me before we decided to come."

"… Are you kidding?" Sam forced himself to laugh. Honestly, it was mortifying talking about his fear. Even with her. "I'm still trying to impress you."

Tracee gave him a slight smile, and then she wrapped her arms around him. Sam found himself sighing out, the tension leaving his body. He hadn't realized that he still had been tense this whole time. Shutting his eyes, he pulled his hands from his jacket pockets and returned the embrace. He squeezed her tighter, wondering why he felt as though he had been missing this. This comforting presence that made him want to just blurt out anything and everything. "Well, stop it," Tracee's muffled voice caused him to rear back. She stared up at him and slid her palms against his back. "You know you don't have to be tough guy with me. Tell me your weakness. Tell me your fear. I'll protect you from them all."

"You know," Sam began, feeling a smile spread on his face. "I probably shouldn't feel better when my girlfriend says stuff like that… but I do." He lowered himself to kiss her lips. It was a simple kiss, one that Tracee readily returned, but… it made him realize that he hadn't kissed her for over a week now. Ever since his dad died, actually. And with that thought, he realized that he had been neglecting her as well. Yes, they had slept in the same bed every night with her holding him as close as possible, but… He hadn't been  _talking_  to her. Too focused on trying to get Dean to open up, he hadn't tried opening up to Tracee. He had been distancing himself. Oh, God, no wonder she had flirted with Ash.

"It's what I'm here for, darling," Tracee said once she pulled back, pretty mouth still puckered. He had missed that, too. Sam had to make it up to her. Definitely. "I mean it, Samuel. Don't force yourself with this one, okay?"

"Okay," he agreed. "I'll let you save me from all the clowns."

"Good," Tracee replied with a smirk. Unable to help himself, Sam leaned down again to capture her lips again. His hands came up to touch her cheeks as he repeatedly kissed her.

"Would you guys stop with the PDA for a second?!" The snippy voice of his brother interrupted just as Tracee's hand had found its way up his shirt. Sam opened his eyes and glared in the direction Dean's voice had come from. He was stiffly walking towards them, scowl on his face. "I know where Mr. Cooper is, so let's go."

"Who's Mr. Cooper?" Tracee questioned, removing her arms from around Sam. Dean only walked by, grumbling to himself about blind people? "Who spit in  _his_  tea?"

"Come on, let's follow him," Sam advised. He held her left hand with his right and put them in the safety of his pocket. He still felt uncomfortable, making their way through the carnival—he flinched every time he spotted a clown costume—but holding her hand was better than attempting to navigate alone. Finally, though, Dean came to a stop outside a large trailer. His brother finally told them why they had been searching for this Mr. Cooper. The man owned the carnival and could give them jobs to blend in while they searched for the cursed object.

After the explanation was out of the way, Dean knocked on the door to the trailer. Within a few moments, the knock was answered. A short old man opened the door and scrutinized them. "Can I help you?" he asked, cocking a brow.

"Oh yeah, hi," Dean greeted. "We were looking for jobs and heard you were the one to come to."

"I see…" the old man said. He narrowed his eyes, and then shrugged. "Alright, come on in." Mr. Cooper turned and released the door, causing Dean to make an aggressive grab for it before it could close all the way. The three climbed the steps into the trailer, which happened to look like an office on the inside. There were two chairs. One was relatively normal. The other was in the shape of a clown. Sam froze when he saw it. Dean saw it, too, and went for the normal chair. The jerk. He twitched and glowered, wondering if he truly had to take the spot. "Take a seat." Well, that answered that question.

"Dorks," Tracee muttered under her breath. She slipped her hand from his pocket and headed over to sit down in the remaining chair. Sam sighed in relief, knowing he wouldn't have to sit there. But then Tracee raised both her eyebrows, and then glanced down at her spread legs. Understanding her intent, he felt himself flush. Still, he walked over and sat in between her legs. As the chair wasn't normal, there was enough space for him to sit comfortable even with Tracee behind him. Better than a goddamn clown. He was grateful, even more so when her hands gingerly rubbed at his sides.

"Gross," Dean said.

"You three sure picked a hell of a time to join up," Mr. Cooper began. "Couple folks got themselves murdered. Cops always seems to come here first." The man sat down in his own chair. If he noticed the sitting arrangement, he didn't bother to comment on it. "So, you ever worked the circuit before?"

" _Uh_ , yes, sir," Sam spoke for the three of them. "Last year through Texas and Arkansas." It was a simple lie. Vague enough to not ask further questions about which particular cities.

"Doing what?" Mr. Cooper asked. Uh-oh. Sam had no clue what consisted of being a worker at a carnival. He had never been to one, and if the decision had come up in the past, it would have been a straight no. Noticing their hesitation on answering, Mr. Cooper started listing options. He was speaking, but Sam was not understanding at all.

"Yeah…  _uh_ , a little bit of everything, I guess," he answered.

Mr. Cooper tilted his head to the side, narrowing his eyes again. "You've never worked a show in your lives before, have you?" he accused. They had been caught. Dean nervously gave a negative answer, making sure to pop the p of his 'nope.'

"But we really need the work," he insisted. "So, cut us a break?"

The old man clicked his tongue, seemingly annoyed. He drew in a breath through his nose, and then gestured behind him with a pointed finger. "You see that picture?" he asked. "That's my daddy." Sam shifted his attention to the black and white photo. In the picture, there was a man with a striking resemblance to Mr. Cooper. There was a carnival ride behind him. "He was in the business—ran a freak show till they outlawed them most places. Apparently, displaying the deformed isn't dignified. So, most of the performers went from honest work to rotting in hospital and asylums. That's progress… I guess."

"Why are you telling us this, sir?" Tracee spoke up, shifting her head to get a look at the man. Sam moved a bit to the right to make it easier for her.

"Well, this place is a refuge for outcasts, always has been, for folks that don't fit in nowhere else," Mr. Cooper continued. "But you three… You should go to school. Get married. Have two point five children. Live  _regular_."

"Excuse you…?!" Tracee abruptly picked Sam up and nearly deposited to the side him like he was a sack. He immediately went with the flow and stood up in order not to lose his footing and actually fall to the floor. She placed her hands on the desk and leaned forward. "I  _know_  you didn't just discriminate against us based off our appearances, sir!" Mr. Cooper, dumbfounded, opened his mouth to protest, but she didn't give him time. "Because I am certain that the Better Business Bureau, or any other media outlet, wouldn't appreciate an interviewer making such comments to those wanting to make an honest living. We didn't come here for advice. We didn't come here for a bloody lecture. We came to work. We came to get paid. So don't you  _dare_  tell us what we should and shouldn't do!"

"What she means is…!" Sam stood by her side, sliding an arm around her waist. She pushed herself from the desk and stood up straight. Good, she had calmed down relatively quick. He turned his full attention to Mr. Cooper. "With all due respect, sir, you don't know our lives. Just because we look a certain way doesn't mean we aren't outcasts ourselves. We don't want to go to school. We don't want regular. We want  _this_."

The man leveled him with a steady, unreadable gaze, and then he leaned back in his chair. "Tell you what," he said. "I'll give you jobs. You two-" He eyed both Sam and Dean. "-will be working hands, cleaning up after people and shutting things down when needed. But you-" Mr. Cooper focused on Tracee. "-I have something special in mind for you. I'll even split the profits fifty-fifty."

"Profits…?" Tracee repeated. "I'm listening."

"You and you—go find anyone wearing a red jacket. They'll tell you where you can get your own," he continued, standing. Not so nicely, he ushered the brothers out of the office trailer. Sam stumbled and almost fell to the ground. He winced, hearing the door shut behind him. Dean, less than pleased with being pushed, yelled at the door in an offended way.

"Don't worry. Tracee can take care of herself," Sam muttered. Although, he didn't like it any more than Dean did. "Let's go find these jackets."

" _Hm_." Dean started walking, leaving Sam to follow. "So that,  _uh_ , whole thing about you not wanting to go to school… Was that true, or were you just saying it?" Sam looked away. "Sam?"

"I don't know," he replied, hastily. "I'm… I guess I'm having second thoughts." His brother halted and turned to him with a look of disbelief. Sam stopped as well. "I know what you're thinking. I know I used to constantly say I'm going back to school once the Demon is dead, but… things have changed.  _I've_  changed. Besides, I think… Dad would have wanted me to stick to the job."

"Since when do you give a damn what dad wanted?" Dean asked. "You spent half of your life doing what he  _didn't_  want."

"Since he  _died_ , Dean," Sam retorted. His brother visibly clenched his jaw. "Do you have a problem with that?" There were so many other questions he had wanted to ask about. Like his sudden disapproving undertones. Or about dad's death. He wanted to ask Dean why he refused to talk—why he refused to  _deal_. They  _needed_  to deal with this together, but the barrier between had seemingly become stronger. His brother had become more withdrawn than ever before, and Sam was not okay with that. He just wanted to  _talk_  to him—to have a confirmation that Dean wasn't  _hiding_  his grief.

" _Nah_ , I don't have a problem at all."

And just like so many times before, Dean faked a smile and shut down. Sam snorted lightly, watching his brother walk off. He didn't know why he had expected anything different. Frowning, he was about to follow, but he heard Tracee's voice calling for him. Sam turned, shifting his frown to a smile at the sight of her. "What did Mr. Cooper say about  _your_  job?" he asked once she came to his side. They walked side by side, heading in the direction that Dean had gone.

"Basically, I am to wear an amazon costume and challenge people to arm wrestling," Tracee stated.

"Why would he have you do that?"

"The old man has sharp eyes," she replied with a shrug. "He noticed how easy it was for me to lift you. I'm going to make so much money off foolish men who think they can take me."

"Is… Is that really okay?" Sam asked. "It's kinda cheating, isn't it?"

"Why shouldn't I use my advantage to make money?" Tracee questioned, looking up at him with a grin. "Musicians do it all the time. And so do doctors. They do what most people can't, and get paid for it."

"That's... actually a good point…" Sam shrugged. He wrapped his right arm around her shoulders. "What's this amazon costume look like, anyway?"

"You'll see,  _darling_."

0-0


	24. Inklings & Resolutes

Things had certainly escalated quickly. What started out as a simple ‘test your might’ type of game had eventually turned into an extravagant event. A high striker had been used first. If contestants had managed to ring the bell, they had gotten tickets and a chance to arm wrestle Cooper Carnival’s mightiest warrior. The enticement of the challenge had been money instead of tickets. Of course men of all ages had tried. And had failed. After about twenty men lost their money, word had spread throughout the carnival, and now all sorts of people were attempting to win.

Tracee stared dispassionately as another muscled man struck the bell at the top of the high striker. Three hours into working at a carnival, and she had managed to set up an event to herself. Her face had been painted with silver sparkles, heavy dark eyeshadow, and the blackest lipstick that could be found. Also, her hair had been released from the hair tie, and had been purposely messed up to complete her wild Amazonian look. Honestly, she was just in a bikini with a fur loincloth, and blue ‘tribal’ markings on various parts of her exposed skin. It hadn’t seemed Amazonian to her—especially with the matching blue star painted over her right eye—but she hadn’t known enough about it to dispute it with the ringleader. He had told her the costume was based off something he had seen in _Xena: Warrior Princess_ , which apparently he was a fan of. Again, she hadn’t known enough about that show to dispute his choice.

As long as the money keeps coming, Tracee thought as she watched the winner of the high striker challenge grin smugly. The crowd cheered as he made his way over to the table in which the wrestling would go down. Perhaps they thought this was the man to succeed against her strength? Admittedly, his biceps were as big as his head. His hands were large and thick, and would probably completely cover her own. The whole of the man looked much bigger than the men who had tried to win against her. Please… She would be much more concerned if a woman tried to challenge her.

Like Jo Harvelle. Now that would actually be a challenge. The girl’s combat skills were amateur at best, but her strength was on par with Cassie and herself. Tracee narrowed her eyes, deep in thought. So far, she had fought two Slayers. She was beginning to compile information because of it. The working theory was that all Slayers activated in 2003 had the same level of physical strength. She wondered if the _called_ Slayers had a different level of strength… She hadn’t been able to provide substantial information about their original sisters to Jo when asked. Despite the activation, though, the skills of Slayers varied, but she only had two to work that out, though. She would need to run into more Slayers to get a better understanding.

“What’s the matter, little girl? Trembling in fear?”

Tracee snapped out of her thoughts. She breathed in through her nose, and tried not to glower. “How much are you willing to bet, sir?” she questioned. In order to get money, the contestant had to bet money. The allure of it was that if the contest won, they would get double of what they bet. So betting five dollars would allow them to get ten dollars. If they lost, the contestants would lose whatever had been put up to bet. Smaller bets tended to win. Higher bets, and men that annoyed her, tended to lose. She had made so much money already. Bigger than a weekly paycheck.

“I’m gonna bet two hundred!” the foolish man proclaimed. Her eyebrows rose in surprise. First off, who brought two hundred dollars to a carnival? Secondly, that amount of money would be the highest bet so far. “But I don’t want just double! I want it all. I’m gonna take back all the money my friends’ lost.” Tracee licked her lips, keeping herself from smirking. How nostalgic. So his buddies had gone and gotten their strongest ally, did they? She had experienced the same thing in middle school. A classmate of hers hadn’t appreciated the self-defense her father had made her learn that year. The brat should not have hit her. So she had gone to get her older cousin. The self-defense had not worked on the larger female. Tracee had gotten the tar beaten out of her. A lesson had been learned that day.

Defending was only half the battle.

Tracee stood up from her chair. “That is quite the high stake,” she said. Her head tilted to the right, gesturing towards the lockbox, which contained the money she had made so far. “I’ll take that bet.” The muscled man grinned smugly. He reached into his pocket and pulled out ten twenty dollar bills. He handed them to her, and the crowd cheered at the prospect. Tracee slipped the money into the lockbox’s slot, and then turned her attention to the gathered crowd. “But _clearly_ , I’m going to need help. Shall I take a volunteer from the audience? Who shall stand against me to win against this evil?”

“H-Hey! _I’m_ the hero here!”

Tracee ignored him, making a show of scanning the audience. “I need the purest and strongest warrior to help me defend my tribe,” she exclaimed. Okay, she was kinda getting into the gig. Holding back a chuckle, she shut her eyes and held a palm to her forehead. “I’m sensing such a person here.” There were many children in the audience. She would choose one of them. For this foolish man’s humiliation. Tracee walked forward, towards a specific child. This child had light brown long kinky hair, kept out of face by a large white headband. It reminded her of Cassie’s hair a bit. Many children had eagerly stretched their hands up, but this girl hadn’t. Dressed in purple, with a purple stuffed monkey wrapped around her upper body, she seemed too busy eating cotton candy.

She approached the girl and held out her hand. Clearly surprised at being picked, the girl stopped chewing her sweet treat. Chuckling out loud, Tracee asked for her name. “I’m… My name’s Alicia,” she replied.

“Well, pure one, are you willing to help me defeat this great evil that threatens my lands?” While the girl nodded her head vigorously, the man whined out that he wasn’t a villain. He was ignored. Tracee led the girl over to the table, but it was she that took a seat and gestured for the man to do the same. He did so in a begrudging type of manner. Again, his actions were largely ignored. “Put your hand on arm. Lend me your purple strength.” The girl giggled and nodded again.

“She’s just a kid,” the man grumbled, holding his arm up in preparation.

“A kid that will help me defeat you, evil tyrant,” Tracee replied, copying his movement. Narrowing his eyes, he squeezed her hand. “So strong…” she faked a wince. “Quickly, pure one! I need you!” The girl hurriedly grabbed onto her bicep. “You must concentrate. We have only one shot at this.”

“Yes!” the girl’s enthusiasm caused a real smile to appear.

“You ready, lord of the dead?”

“Okay, I think you’re taking this a little too far.”

“That sounds like a yes. We will begin now.”

Long story short, the Amazonian tribe had been saved thanks to Cooper Carnival’s mightiest warrior and the purest warrior the land had to offer. Tracee had tried very hard not to laugh obnoxiously as the man sulked away. Of course, his loss had caused the audience to disperse because no one had wanted to challenge her anymore. The little girl, though, Alicia, had been more than thrilled to walk away with ten dollars. She had taken off, proud she had helped and had immediately wanted to find her parents to relay the good news.

“Perhaps if this Slayer thing doesn’t work out, I could get used to this,” Tracee muttered as she made her way through the throngs of people. She had just returned from the owner’s office. He had the key to the lockbox, after all. The man said he would count the money and give her half later on. Tracee had nicely told him that she wouldn’t appreciate it if he shorted her. The owner vehemently denied he would do such a thing, especially to a woman that could break him in half. Smart man, she had told him. So now, she was left to wander the carnival, occasionally waving at children, discretely flipping off men that had the audacity to catcall her, and eating snacks. She was currently working on a snow cone—cherry flavored, of course.

Suddenly, she stopped, furrowing her brow. Tracee sucked in a sharp breath as she narrowed her eyes. Despite the snow cone, she had felt an unexpected surge of heat nearly crawling across her face, cheek to cheek. Inside her chest, her heart banged against its confines. What in the world was this? Well, no, she actually wasn’t confused as to what this was. She had felt it before. The warmth had extended, not only to her chest, but the lower pits of her belly as well. This was burning desire. Question was: why was it happening _now_? This snow cone wasn’t _that_ good.

“Tracee…!” Over the sound of the various carnival games, and friends and family having fun, she heard the familiar voice of the youngest Winchester. Smiling wide, she turned to face him just as he made his approach. “I’ve been looking everywhere for you,” Sam remarked, coming to a stop in front of her. With his cheeks flushed, he looked so adorable. Tracee attempted to stifle her smile, and tried to look serious.

“Is everything okay?” she questioned. “Did you pick something up on the EMF?”

“Zilch,” Sam answered. He bit his lip, and Tracee found herself following the movement of his incisor as it grazed his lower lip. He cleared his throat, sharply diverting her attention back to the conversation as well. “But Dean and I managed to find a lead. A little girl saw a clown, but it was gone in the next second. We think this thing is gonna target that family, so Dean’s keeping an eye on them. When they leave, we’re gonna follow.”

“Better than scanning everything here, I suppose,” Tracee muttered.

“So I guess I’ll stay with you until Dean calls,” Sam continued. He licked his lips, eyeing her. Unbidden, the strange surge of heat returned and curled within her. “You look…” He cleared his throat again. It was a bit strange to realize that Sam seemed flustered. “Good,” he breathed out. Tracee stared up at him, honestly feeling bewilderment. Of course, he had shown his attraction for her numerous times, but this was the first time he had been so awkwardly adorable about it. Normally, he flirted with confidence with her. So the realization of his sexual attraction to her was a bit on the mind-blowing side. Had this been what Dean had meant? His awkward charm? It was _cute_.

“Why, Samuel… If I didn’t know any better, I’d think you like this _KISS_ groupie look,” Tracee teased him. To her delight, his cheeks turned a deeper pink. Knowing his taste in music, he probably did.

“I-I like,” he admitted, fingers reaching out to brush against her wild hair. Then he abruptly dropped his hand, and averted his gaze elsewhere. “ _Um_ … _Wow_ , it’s kinda hot, isn’t it?” Tracee laughed, pleased by his nervousness. She quite enjoyed his awkward charm.

“Come on,” she urged, intertwining her fingers with his.

“Where are we going?” Sam asked.

“Well, I have to return this silly costume, so I’m willing to give you a little photoshoot to remember before I do that,” Tracee answered, tugging him along. When her words processed, it was him that took the lead. She followed behind, grinning widely, watching him fumble in his attempt to remove his cell phone from his jacket pocket. _Shyeah_ , Samuel definitely liked.

 

0-0

 

Hours later, the three were in the midst of the stakeout. Night had fallen some time ago, and the family had returned home, unaware of their observers. They had gone to bed, feeling completely safe. Meanwhile, Tracee, Dean, and Sam watched the house, looking for any sign of danger. Well, she and Sam had remained vigilant. Dean had dozed off about fifteen minutes ago. Actually, only Sam had remained vigilant. More than once, Tracee had become distracted by cleaning her face. She had gone through several of her makeup remover wipes, but yet the sparkles hadn’t completely gone away. The absolute last time she would allow her whole face to be painted.

Suddenly, Tracee flinched and sat upright in her seat. There was a twisting in her throat as her skin hummed unpleasantly. Her shoulders sagged with an unidentified pressure. The wipe in her hand dropped to the floor of the van. In the same motion, Tracee slapped against the back of Dean’s seat. The older Winchester startled awake, and the younger turned in his seat. Voice laced in concerned, he asked her if she was alright. However, Tracee kept her eyes on the house they had been observing. She couldn’t very well see in the dark, but she attempted to strain her eyes, anyway.

Then a light came on in the house. That was a confirmation. The stifling sense of a supernatural creature. “It’s here,” she said. The family’s little girl walked through what seemed to be a living room. Her movements indicated that she intended to go to the front door. Tracee’s eyebrow jumped. Her eyes recognized the child. “Let’s go,” she urged. Not needing to be told twice, the brothers opened their respective doors. Tracee climbed towards the front and followed Dean out of the van.

The three moved quickly and quietly towards the house. They approached a side door. Sam made quick work of the lock, and they all made their way inside. Tracee took the lead, sensing the concentration of the supernatural presence in the house. After a moment, she halted, lifting her left hand in a fist. The brothers seemed to understand the intent because they both paused, awaiting additional instructions. They didn’t have much time. Clearly, the little girl was leading the supernatural being through the house. The hallway beyond the threshold was lit, so it was only a matter of time before the two came down.

Tracee uncurled her fist, and then gestured for Sam to move. The younger brother quietly walked through the threshold and towards another dark room across the hall. Dean stayed put while Tracee moved towards the other side of the wall. From her vantage point, she could see the girl and the clown coming down the hall. Dean pressed himself against the wall as the pair came closer. Tracee did the same. “Wanna see mommy and daddy?” the little girl asked as she and the clown walked by their hiding spot. The clown nodded, and Tracee narrowed her eyes. “They’re upstairs.”

Sam abruptly sprang from his hiding place and snatched up the little girl, separating her from the supernatural being. However, the girl began screaming, clearly frightened by the action. “Hey!” Dean shouted, drawing the clown’s attention. It sharply turned their way, only to receive a chest full of rock salt. The body fell to the ground as the girl continued screaming. Tracee stepped out of the shadows and moved towards the body. She could still feel its presence, so it wasn’t a spirit.

The clown stood up, and Tracee let her fist fly. She struck its cheek with a left hook, and then swiftly shifted to an uppercut. Then her right hand grabbed at the side of the clown’s face before slamming its head against the left wall. It crumbled to the floor, not even letting out a groan of pain. Tracee eyed the dent in the wall before shifting her focus back on the clown. She lifted her leg, preparing to stomp down on the creature’s leg, but it recovered faster than anticipated. Her ankle was caught by its strong grip, and immediately she was thrown backwards.

She recovered midair by flipping her body, but by the time she landed on her feet, the clown had stood up again. Instead of going on the offensive, the supernatural being turned and jumped through the glass door, vanishing completely as it did. The glass shattered with the invisible impact, and the shards fell to the floor. Tracee sucked her teeth in annoyance at the enemy’s escape, and then abruptly turned towards the screaming child. She walked over to Sam and the girl, and then lowered herself to clamp a hand over her mouth. “Is this how a pure and strong one behaves?!” she questioned, voice hissing in disapproval.

The little girl stared wide-eyed at her. Eyes wet with unshed tears, her muffled screaming instantly stopped. Recognition appeared in her dark brown eyes, and then she shook her head. “What’s going on?! Alicia! What the hell?!” A deep voice caught her attention. Tracee stood up straight to face the additions. A man and a woman, whom both shared similarities with the girl, had come around the corner. The woman cried out in shock, demanding for them to get away from her daughter.

Clearly scared by their arrival, Sam hastily removed his arms from the child. Tracee could only imagine what it must look like from their point of view. The clamor of hysterical voices grew in volume the longer the three stood in mute horror. Shaking her head, Tracee opened her mouth. “Enough!” she shouted, effectively silencing the parents. The sharp tone, and not to mention the accent, must have given them pause. They shifted their attention to her instead of on the seemingly dangerous white males in their house. “Your daughter just let in a very horrendous criminal that we have been tracking for _months_. If it wasn’t for our intervention, you’d be _dead_. So stop shouting.”

“Mommy! Daddy! The mightiest warrior beat up the clown!” the girl exclaimed, moving away from Sam to stand beside her. “She’s the one that gave me the money at the carnival.”

“Yes, we’ve been undercover, trying to track his movements. We suspected your family was next, so we followed you home. This man dresses in costume in order to trick small children into letting him into homes,” Tracee explained. “From there, he brutally murders unsuspecting parents. Surely, you’ve heard news of this monster?” The woman gasped sharply, covering her mouth in shock. One of the parents had, and so that was what mattered. “Now, we don’t have time to further explain because he managed to get away. However, the local authorities have been called already. Officers will answer any questions you may have, and then take your statements.” Tracee lightly pushed the little girl towards her parents, and then gestured for Dean and Sam to follow her. The father sighed in relief as he held his daughter close.

Good. The story she had come up with seemed to be working. The two brothers cautiously moved to stand behind her. “So, _uh_ , if you’ll excuse us,” Dean began, pulling on the back of Tracee’s jacket. “We have to go catch a bad guy.” With that being said, the three of them went through the broken door, and hurriedly made their way back to the vehicle. Dean started up the minivan once they were all inside, and drove off, burning rubber in his haste to get away. He didn’t turn on the headlights until they were miles away from the home. Only then did he sigh heavily in relief. “Quick thinking, Trace,” he complimented.

“Not really,” she told him from her place in the backseat. “I foresaw no scenario that would allow us to do the job without alerting the parents, so I formulated that story while we were waiting. Always helps to have a backup.”

“Still, good job on that one,” Dean said, causing Tracee to grin.

They drove for quite some time. Only stopping once the sun rose. Dean parked the minivan in a dense thicket, and then got out. The three packed up their belongings, making sure to clean out everything. The license plates were taken as well. “You really think they saw our plates?” Sam questioned, finishing his packing by stuffing John’s journal in his bag.

“I don’t wanna risk it,” Dean told him, slamming the trunk of the van down. “Besides, I hate this friggin’ thing anyway.” And so the three began the long walk. Tracee shifted the weight of her bag so that she could walk comfortably. “One thing’s for sure, though. We’re not dealing with a spirit. That rock salt hit something solid. What you think, Trace?”

“Solid as solid can be,” Tracee replied. “Even when it went invisible, it broke through the glass instead of just fazing through it. And it knocked over a pot, too. So we’re probably looking at something we’ve never seen before. I’ve certainly never _sensed_ something like that before. Definitely, not human, though.”

“You think this thing is dressing up like a clown for kicks or it’s actually only using the kids to get in?” Dean questioned.

“Probably, though I don’t understand why the kids are left unharmed,” Tracee muttered. “This is a strange case. Whatever it is, I think the _modus operandi_ might be a unique variation. Would explain why we don’t readily know what this creature is. There was nothing in Poppa-Winchester’s journal either.”

Sam pulled his cell phone out of his pocket and sighed. “Maybe Ellen or that guy, _Ash_ -” For some reason, he had said the name with more bite than necessary. Tracee rolled her eyes. “-will know something.” He lowered his arm and looked ahead for a moment. “Hey, you think, _uh_ …” He chuckled a little bit. “You think dad and Ellen ever had a thing?”

“That’s something I don’t want to think about,” Tracee remarked.

“No way,” Dean scoffed.

“Then why didn’t he tell us about her?”

“I don’t know—maybe they had some sorta falling out or something,” Dean suggested; his voice had gotten notably lower.

Tracee frowned lightly and narrowed her eyes. Since she was walking beside Dean, she could see the sudden tension in his jaw. Sam, not noticing, continued speaking with a slightly nostalgic grin. “You ever notice dad had a falling out with just about everybody?” he questioned, holding the phone up to his ear. Tracee realized what Sam had been attempting. He had been attempting for the past few days. But making Dean talk about John Winchester had been like pulling teeth. Even now, the older brother looked towards the ground, choosing not to voice any type of remark. Sam huffed as he lowered his arm and disconnected his call. “Don’t get all maudlin on me, man,” he said sarcastically.

“What do you mean?” Dean turned his attention towards his brother.

“I mean this whole-” Great, Sam was using dramatic hand gestures. Tracee could tell that he was fed up, and he wanted talking right goddamn now. This was not going to be good. “-strong silent thing of yours. It’s crap. I’m _over_ it.” Dean groaned in exasperation and pointedly shifted his gaze to the road ahead. “This isn’t just anyone we’re talking about. This is _dad_! I _know_ how you felt about the man.”

“You know what—just back off, alright?” Dean blurted, clearly annoyed. Tracee knew it wouldn’t stop his brother. “Just because I’m not caring and sharing like you want me to-”

“No, no, no, Dean! That’s not what this is about!” Sam protested. “I don’t care how you deal with this, but you _have_ to deal with it, man!” Dean only rolled his eyes, looking away with a fake smile on his face. Typical behavior for him in the face of ‘caring and sharing.’ “Listen, I’m your brother, alright? I just want to make sure you’re okay.”

“Dude! I’m _okay_! I’ve been saying the same damn thing to you all week—I’m _fine_!” Dean retorted. “Stop dumping _your_ bullshit on me!”

“What does that mean?” Sam asked, abruptly stopping.

“I just think it’s _real_ interesting this sudden obedience you have to dad,” Dean said. He, too, had stopped. Tracee chose to halt a few paces away. Her left brow lifted. She found herself curious by the older Winchester’s words. Projection…? Had Sam been projecting onto his brother? She hadn’t thought of that, admittedly. What reason would have to do it? “It’s like oh ‘what would dad want me to do?’ Sam, you spent your entire life slugging it out with that man. I mean, hell! You picked a fight with him the last time you ever saw him, and now that he’s dead, now you want to make it right? I’m sorry, Sam, but you _can’t_. It’s too little too late!”

Tracee sucked in a sharp silent breath. Her chest felt time, and her eyes stung a bit. It was a familiar emotion, one she had experience when Dean’s ire had been directed at her. But his callous words hadn’t been towards her this time, so why the hell did she feel like crying? “Why are you saying this to me?” Sam asked. His voice had cracked just a bit, but Dean was too far gone to notice or care.

“Because I want you to be honest with yourself about this! _I’m_ dealing with dad’s death! Are _you_?!”

By the time he had reached the question, he had been yelling. The involuntary feeling shifted to stifling the longer the brothers stared at one another. Finally, Sam looked down, pursing his lips together. “I’m gonna call Ellen,” he said. Swallowing hard, he turned and headed in the opposite direction. Tracee let out a shuddering breath as she watched the younger Winchester moved further and further away. Frowning, she followed after him, throwing Dean a far from please look as she walked by. To his credit, the older Winchester seemed remorseful about it, but made no moves to apologize or explain.

Tracee approached Sam, who had halted a few yards away from where Dean out stood. The older brother was just out of earshot at this range. Sam was visibly stiff, and he made no move to pull his cell phone out again. She wanted to reach for him—to take away the tension that overwhelmed him—but she refrained for now. Instead, Tracee crossed her arms. “Samuel,” she said his name to get his attention. It took a moment, but he finally turned to face her. Obviously, he had been effected by his brother’s words. With his wrinkled brow and prominent frown, the hurt was visible. That meant it had been some truth in those words. Shit. “I’ve been keeping my mouth shut about it, but this has got to end.”

“What are you talking about?”

“The poking the bear thing? Don’t tell me you honestly thought it would work? The pushing and prodding—there’s no way Dean would have reacted in _any other way_ than how he just did,” Tracee said. “What I don’t understand is why you thought otherwise. You know your brother _too_ well to think pestering would work. So _what_ was that? Did you want to reach the point where Dean would shout at you—make you feel this hurt?” Sam lowered his gaze to the ground, and Tracee didn’t know what to make of it just yet. “Was there any merit to his words? Is this… projecting?”

“No!” His protest was equipped with a sharp stare. It was a lie. “How could you even _think_ that?!”

“Well, it’s not like I’d _know_ , Sam!” Tracee snapped back. He flinched, visibly taken aback by the response. Shit. She sighed out. “No, I’m sorry. For-Forget I said that.” Taking in a deep breath to compose herself, she opened her mouth to try again. “Grief isn’t something that can be pushed. It’s completely up to the individual on how they react. Outside influences can offer condolences, but that individual has every right to take them or _not_. Just because you, under normal circumstances, takes comfort in talking doesn’t mean your brother will. And hell…! For all we know, he has already grieved and dealt and talked about it. We don’t know what went on between him and Cassie for those three days. So it makes no sense that you would be prodding. Unless you really are the one projecting because you’re the one not dealing, after all. Is that true?”

“Tracee…” Sam bit his lower lip. His breath came out ragged. “I…”

“Dean’s right,” Tracee realized. “You do feel guilty about that last conversation…”

“No,” he said, shaking his head. “That would have been… normal. It was-” Sam roughly rubbed at his forehead. “It was before that. It was when Dean was dying—I told him…” He clenched his jaw and squeezed his eyes shut. “I told… I told him that he could _go die alone_.” Tracee drew in a startled breath, absolutely horrified. Sharply, she turned her gaze back down the road. Dean had his back to them, and hopefully, he had been too far away to hear the confession.

“No, Samuel, no—that does _not_ sound like you,” Tracee said, focusing back on the taller brother. “So you need to back up and explain because _no_. That’s not-”

“I _did_ , Tracee,” Sam interrupted. “I said it, and then he fucking died. He died _by himself_. After I told him I didn’t care what he did! After I told him that he didn’t care enough about Dean. I did it, and I keep…” He inhaled shakily through his mouth, and Tracee felt the sharpest tug on her throat. It was painful to see him so distraught. “I keep replaying that conversation over and over in my head, and… it was probably the _cruelest_ thing I’ve ever said.”

“Oh my God, Samuel…” Tracee opened her arms and stepped forward. Sam sniffed harshly, and readily stepped into her embrace. He squeezed her tightly, nose pressing hard against the side of her neck. She should have realized sooner. No wonder he had been quiet. Under the weight of such a thing must have been hard to bear. Tracee had known something hadn’t been quite right with her lover, but to think it had been something like that. She inhaled deeply and rubbed up and down his back. “Samuel, tell me what happened?”

Sam waited a few moments before rearing back from her. Tracee reluctantly dropped her arms as well. He pressed his lips together and turned his gaze away. “I… He told me to gather ingredients to keep away the Demon. He gave me the list, and I gave it to Bobby, but Bobby told me that the combination was for summoning not warding. So I got angry. Angry that he lied. Angry that he wanted to go after the Demon while Dean was dying, so we argued,” Sam explained. “But I realized that it was the same argument. I realized that it was always going to be the same argument—the same lone wolf mentality—and so I told him that he could do whatever he wanted. That I didn’t care anymore. I told him to get his revenge, sacrifice himself, be _alone_ , like always. I got fed up… so I turned my back on him.”

Tracee covered her mouth, using three fingers. She almost couldn’t believe it. But she had already witnessed how explosive the arguments between father and son could get. If Sam truly had gotten fed up with the ‘same argument,’ then it was completely possible that the go die alone had been the end of that conversation. Because of that, she didn’t know what to say. She wanted to badly to comfort him—to reassure him—but what could she possibly say to counteract his overwhelming sense of guilt?

“I miss him, Tracee. I wish… I wish I could just apologize,” Sam murmured. “I feel guilty as hell. I mean, for all I know-” He sniffed harshly. “-he died thinking I hated him.”

She lowered her hand to reach for his. It took a beat, but Sam eventually shifted his gaze to her. For a long moment, they stared, wet eyes reflecting wet eyes. Tracee licked her lips and took a breath. “I know nothing I say will stop you from feeling guilty about that,” she began. “But I, at least, want to remind you that… John loved you.” Sam frowned and lowered his head. A tear slipped out of his eye. He hadn’t tried to pull away. “No matter what you might have said or done, he loved you unconditionally,” she continued. “And you love him. I’m not saying you shouldn’t feel guilty, but this guilt shouldn’t push you to make your brother lash out because you think you deserve it. This guilt shouldn’t _consume_ you. This guilt shouldn’t stop you from dealing and moving on. You love each other—focus on that.”

For several moments, Sam continued to stare. Then he shut his eyes, lowering his forehead to press against hers. “I’ll try,” he whispered. Tracee shut her eyes, too, pushing back a bit. So weird that this type of physical contact that they shared meant so much. She opened her eyes to find that Sam had as well. He was just watching her, hazel eyes clouded over with something she hadn’t seen before. He blinked, and then it was gone. Sam reared back, and then stepped away, taking his hand with him. “ _Um_ … I’m-” He cleared his throat. “I’m gonna call Ellen.”

Tracee nodded her head, and he took it as a sign to leave. She watched him walk away, pulling his cell phone out again. Things were still raw because he hadn’t truly been dealing. Sure, he had cried at the funeral, but after that, nothing. He hadn’t talked, and had kept his feelings bottled in. She should have confronted him sooner, but… she wouldn’t keep mentioning it. Like she told him, grief shouldn’t be pushed. Scratching at her neck, Tracee turned and headed back towards Dean. He turned as she approached, but didn’t stay anything. She chose not to say anything either.

After a few minutes of silence, Sam headed back over to them. “ _Rakshasa_ is Ellen’s best guess,” he said. The three began walking again. “It’s a race of ancient Hindu creatures. They appear in human form. They feed on human flesh. They can make themselves invisible, and they cannot enter a home without first being invited.”

“So Trace was kinda right then,” Dean remarked. “They dress up like clowns, and children invite them in. Why don’t they just munch on the kids?”

“It’s probably just a preference,” Tracee muttered. “Like mushroom pizza versus pepperoni pizza. Mushrooms are nasty, but you can’t go wrong with pepperoni.”

“Can we not compare victims to pizza please?” Sam let out a chuckle despite the question. “Getting back to it, apparently, _Rakshasas_ live in squalor. They sleep on a bed of dead insects.” Tracee made a face, completely disgusted by that fact. Sam grinned her at expression. “Yeah, and they have to feed a few times every twenty to thirty years—slow metabolism, I guess.”

“Well, that makes sense,” Dean said. “The carnival today, the Bunker Brothers in ’81.”

“Probably more before that,” Sam mentioned.

“Hey, Sam, who do we know that worked both shows?” Dean questioned.

“Cooper?”

“Cooper,” he agreed.

“You know, that picture of his father—that looked just like him,” Sam commented.

“Let’s get all our facts straight before we make him the primary suspect,” Tracee said. “I’m not trying to make a mistake when it comes to slaying.” The brothers nodded in agreement. “That being said, how do we kill it?”

“Legend goes a dagger made of pure brass,” Sam answered.

“I think I know where to get one of those,” Dean said. “Alright… I’ll round up the blade. You two check to see if Cooper’s got bedbugs.” Tracee visibly pouted, not at all liking her assignment. Noticing, Dean chuckled and nudged her with his elbow. She stuck her tongue out at him.

“Don’t worry, Tracee. I’ll protect you from the dead bugs,” Sam told her.

“My darling knight,” she replied, drily. Her disgusted frown deepened. She really hoped that she didn’t have to witness a literal bed of bugs. Lord, she needed more than just physical strength for this one. Both brothers merely laughed at her. The dorks.

 

0-0

 

The three of them had made it back to the carnival just as the staff were shutting things down for the night. Under the cover of shadow, the three had split up. Dean had gone to find the blade, while Sam and Tracee had gone to gather evidence on Mr. Cooper. The two of them had been less than successful, and had even gotten caught by the owner. After an embarrassing ‘What had happened was’ type of story, she and Sam had left the owner’s trailer in search of Dean. They caught him running.

“Hey!” Sam caught his attention. The older Winchester paused his run and doubled back. “So, Cooper thinks we’re peeping toms, but it’s not him,” Sam announced.

“Yeah, so I gathered,” Dean replied, eyes frantically darting around. “It’s the blind guy. He’s here somewhere.”

Tracee looked around as well. She couldn’t sense the strange signature from where she stood. “Is he after you?” she questioned. “Did he have the brass blade?”

“Yeah, no,” Dean muttered. “Doubt he would even have one.”

“I’ve got an idea—come on,” Sam said before he took off.

She and Dean had no choice but to follow him. The younger Winchester led them to the carnival’s fun house. They walked through the fun house for a moment before the presence of the supernatural natural made Tracee flinch. “It’s here,” she managed to get out right before a door slammed shut. The door separated herself and Dean from Sam. The older Winchester, immediately began banging on the door, but Tracee attempted to focus on the malevolent presence. However, she couldn’t pinpoint it for some reason.

“Trace, come on!” Dean grabbed her arm, pulling her along. “Sam said to find the maze.”

“I hate mazes,” she complained, but followed regardless. Eventually, they both came across Sam, whom looked appeared busying dislodging one of the organ pipes from its place. Tracee narrowed her eyes, watching what seemed to be steam coming from the pipes as it played its creepy music. He better not have burned his hand… Dean called out to his brother, and Sam sharply turned, still holding onto the silver metal.

“Hey…!” he returned, looking around. “Where is it?”

“Give me a moment…!” Tracee retorted. She could feel it nearby, but again, she didn’t know exactly where the invisible creature could be located. Suddenly, she felt the hairs on the back of her neck stand on end. “Dean, get down!” she exclaimed, turning towards the Winchester in question. However, he hadn’t been quick enough. A blade had been thrown, seemingly from nowhere, and had pinned Dean to a nearby wall. Another was launched in the same manner, immobilizing his arm. He was stuck.

“Trace…!” he called out to her.

“Give me a second!” She stood protectively in front of Dean, body tensed, waiting for the next blade. Behind her, she could hear Dean struggling to release himself from the confines. Less than a second later, she saw a dagger heading straight for her. She, almost as a reflex, caught the blade, and then flung it back towards where it came. The Slayer glared at the dark, hearing the blade sink into a wall. She had missed. Clenching her jaw, she waited for the next. “Samuel, move left!” Fortunately, he did, having narrowly dodged another thrown blade. He now had the dislocated pipe in his hands, frantically searching for the supernatural being.

“Tracee, where is it?!” Sam questioned.

Instead of shouting that she didn’t know, a sorta light bulb moment happened. She smacked her forehead, punishing herself for panicking and not thinking clearly. Breathing out through her mouth, she closed her eyes. Just like with the daeva, she had to shut off her sense of sight, which allowed her other senses—her Slayer senses—to pinpoint. There—sneaking up on Sam. “Behind you!” Tracee shouted, opening her eyes.

Trusting her completely, Sam shifted the makeshift brass blade in his hands, shoving the sharp end of the pipe directly behind him without looking. Tracee watched in awe as the pipe actually met its mark. The eerie screeching of the creature was ignored in favor of standing completely still. Sam turned to face the invisible foe, twisting the pipe and grunting in victory. Blood poured from the opening of the pipe. Sam released his hold of the weapon, and it clanged to the floor. The fallen creature had left behind its clothes.

“Holy shit, Samuel,” Tracee managed after a pause. He turned to her, brow furrowed. He panted a bit from the exertion and adrenaline. She had never seen him physically go for the kill like that, twisting the blade, and everything. There was something quite appealing about it. Especially that grunt. It reminded her of a growl. The type of growl that had heat pooling in the pit of her belly. She bit her lower lip in an effort to push down the increasingly hot craving. “You are so getting fucked for this,” she drawled out with a grin. Even in the dimmed fun house, she noticed his cheeks flush and the unmistakable darkening of his eyes. He raised his eye brows as if to ask ‘Oh really?’ _Delightful_.

“Oh, come _on_ , Trace—stop being _gross_!” Dean exclaimed, snapping her out of it. Tracee shook her head, clearing her thoughts of the bad things she was going to do, and then focused completely on the older Winchester. He was glowering, still attempting to pull out the knives.

“Sorry,” she said sheepishly, and then easily yanked out the daggers that pinned the man. Dean massaged his arm a bit, stepping forward and looking towards the clothes that had been left behind.

“I hate fun houses,” he grumbled. “Let’s get the heck outta here.”

Following that, the three left the carnival. They, of course, had to pilfer a vehicle to make it back to the Roadhouse. They had driven all night and made it back to the saloon midday. Now they were sitting at the bar, having drinks placed in front of them. Ellen smiled warmly as she congratulated them on ending the _Rakshasa_. Tracee couldn’t help smirking at the thought of the creature’s end. Damn, she had found Sam attractive before, but after that… She had to force herself to keep her hands from him. So far, she was doing a terrible job because her fingers squeezed at his left thigh. Sam looked her way, trying not to grin.

Someone obnoxiously cleared their throat, drawing Tracee’s attention away from her lover. She turned her head to the left, eyes settling on her fellow Slayer. Jo had her eyebrows raised, and pointedly glanced at Dean, who was sitting beside her at the end of the bar. The older Winchester stared back at her, giving a slight shrug. Tracee sucked at her teeth and rolled her eyes. “Whatever, Bo,” she muttered, standing up from the stool. She ignored the slight hiss as Jo corrected her name. Clearing her throat, she took Sam by the hand and led him away from the bar. She stopped, releasing his hand, once she reached the pool table at the back of the saloon.

“So…”  Sam began. Tracee coyly raised her glass of sprite to her lips. She sat down on the edge of the pool table, waiting for him to continue. “I couldn’t help but notice that you’ve barely kept your eyes away from me.” A chuckle slipped by her lips as she set her glass down beside her. She tilted her head up to the smug Winchester, tongue darting out to lick her lower lip.

“Well, you’ve been quite sexy recently, haven’t you?” she questioned. “I swear you’re doing this on purpose.”

“What on purpose…?” Sam asked, voice teasing as he set his bottle of beer down next to her glass. He stepped closer, standing in between her legs and leaning over her. He placed both hands on either side of her.

“You know… using foreign words… showing that your physical prowess is just as good as your intellect,” Tracee answered. She sat up a bit straighter, lips a hair’s length away from his. “Could drive a girl wild.”

“Oh, I thought you already knew about my _physical prowess_ ,” Sam whispered. His voice had gone deeper, sending ripples of pleasure throughout her body. Bloody hell, this man… Heat rushed to her cheeks. Tracee bit down on her lower lip to keep herself from grinning widely. Before she could reply, the sound of a door opening drew her attention. She tilted her body to see that Ash had come from the back, holding a bizarre looking laptop and the accordion file.

“Where you guys been?” he asked just as Sam stepped away from her to turn and face the mullet-wearing genius. “I’ve been waiting for you.”

“We were working a job, Ash,” he called over. The genius only looked confused. “Clowns…?” Apparently, Ash hadn’t gotten the memo because his eyebrows became even more drawn together.

“ _Clowns_ …? What the f-”

“You got something for us, Ash?” Dean interrupted.

The genius raised his arm, displaying his laptop. Sam and Tracee made their way back over to the bar as Ash set his contraption down. Jo left Dean’s side, slight frown on her face. Tracee raised a curious brow at that, but she chose to be more concerned with Ash’s findings. “Did you find the demon?” Sam questioned, and then cleared his throat.

“It’s nowhere to be found,” Ash answered. “At least, nowhere I can find. But if this fugly bastard raises his head, I’ll know. I mean, I’m on it like Divine on dog dookie.” Ignoring that bit, Tracee peered at the laptop, noticing a weather tracking system, thermal map, and various other computer applications were up and running. Ash turned the laptop so that the brothers could get a good look, too. “Any of those signs or omens appear, anywhere in the world, my rig will go off like a fire alarm.

“You mind if I, _uh_ …” Dean trailed off, halting his attempt to touch the laptop. He had noticed the look Ash was giving. “Never mind.” He curled his fingers and pulled his hand away from the keyboard.

“Now you know how I feel when I try to change the station,” Tracee teased. Dean merely stuck his tongue out at her. “Seriously, though, Ash…” She shook her head, looking towards the laptop’s screen. “This is great. Where’d you learn how to do all this?”

“M.I.T. before I got bounced for fighting,” he nonchalantly answered.

“Is that right…?” Tracee hummed lightly. “Smart and capable, _huh_?”

“You know it, _Valkyrie_.”

A slight tugging on her arm from Sam made her look his way. He did not appear very happy with that exchange. “I’m kidding, darling,” Tracee told him. She lightly patted at his abdomen. Then she shifted her gaze back to Ash. “So you’ll let us know if something changes, right?”

“Si, si, compadre,” he stated with a nod.

“Great, see you around,” Tracee bid him farewell. Sam headed for the door, and she chose this time to lean towards Dean. “So, _shyeah_ , you’re going to have to call Sir Robert to pick you up,” she told him. The older Winchester blinked in confusion, asking why. “Well, how can I put this…?” Ash, bored with the conversation, left and took his laptop with him. Tracee made a show of tapping her chin as though deep in thought. “I’m gonna put your brother to bed.”

“Trace…!” Dean groused. She merely giggled at his reaction. “Seriously, stop telling me shit like that!”

“ _Nah_ ,” she waved off his demand. “So when he gets here, stall him a bit, okay?” Dean rolled his eyes, but didn’t protest. He drank a bit more of his beer. “Hey, so… Is there something going on between you and Bo?”

“No. Nope, nothing,” he replied with a shake of his head. “Nothing at all. Just not feeling it these days.”

Tracee hummed a bit, but ultimately chose not to comment. It was unlike Dean to not flirt with a pretty girl. From the outside, Dean appeared all together, but perhaps Sam had indeed picked up on something not quite right with his brother. She frowned, realizing that she had been neglecting the older Winchester. Sam had almost constantly showed concern and had attempted to prod him for his feelings; she hadn’t wanted to contribute to that. But maybe…

“You just gonna keep standing here?” Dean questioned, and then took a sip of his beer. Tracee blinked once, wondering how long she had been staring at his back.

“Nope,” she replied, popping the p. “Thanks, see you at the house!” She squeezed the top of his shoulders and pressed a quick peck to his right cheek. Ignoring the huff and the over the top way he wiped at his cheek, Tracee skipped away to meet Sam at the door. She would definitely try to talk with Dean later, though. The tall man furrowed his brow, asking what that had been about and why Dean didn’t appear to be coming with. “Oh, he wanted to… stick around for a little bit. Sir Robert will come and get him later on. But we can go—he said we can go.”

“Oh… Did he now?” Sam murmured, opening the door. “Okay, let go.”

Tracee followed, hiding a gleeful smile with her closed fist.

 

0-0

 

Sam chuckled. The sound of it mingled with his heavy pants against the crown of Tracee’s ear.  He dipped his chin, mouth opening to nip at the left side of her neck. He just found it so amusing that she had told him that he ‘was so getting fucked,’ and yet here they were. Her underneath him, the fingers of her left hand clawing at the sheets while her fingers of her right hand gripped the headboard of the bed. Sam held her by the waist with one arm while his other hand pressed against the bed, keeping himself steady as he thrust into her from behind. As they were the only ones in the house, she didn’t have to hold back on how much she enjoyed slamming her bottom against him.

He shuddered against her neck, feeling himself grow closer to the edge. God, he had missed this. The feel of being inside. The taste of her sweat. The moans of his name. Maybe he had gone too long without it. Sam had been aggressive, almost animalistic, in having her. Maybe next time they could take it slow—gentler than this time. But for now, Sam increased his pace, moving harder against her. Tracee’s gasp almost sounded like a choke. She moaned loudly, increasing her grip on the headboard. Over the heavy breathing and the smacking of their skin, he heard the whine of the wood beneath the pressure of her hand.

Tracee threw her head back, crying out his name. The wood broke under her grip as she reached her peak. Following close behind, Sam squeezed his eyes shut, feeling himself tense, and then shout in pleasure. He gasped himself, pressing his nose into her shoulder blade. “Tracee... _fuck_ …” Sam relaxed on top of her, but kept himself up, waiting for the aftershocks of the intense release to pass. When they did—when he could no longer feel the trembles of their shared gratification—he completely let himself fall against her. Tracee dropped to the bed, sighing out in content. She swiped her right hand, tossing the broken piece of wood. It clattered across the floor, but Sam couldn’t bring himself to care at the moment. He slowly opened his eyes, taking the time to enjoy her identical panting.

“ _Fuck_ …” she agreed. Sam smiled lightly, smoothing his lips over her shoulder. With a low grunt, he slipped out of her. Tracee mewed as he moved, but he placated her by planting kisses down her spine. She shuddered and hummed, clearly appreciating the contact. “You think someone’s gonna notice that?” Her soft question caused Sam to look up. The piece of headboard that had been snapped was clearly an eyesore. He laughed outright at the sight. Yeah, Bobby was definitely going to notice the damage. “Shut up,” she told him, voice filled with mirth. “It’s _your_ fault.”

“Yeah, blame your strength on me,” Sam snickered.

With a grunt, he turned his body, falling to the bed beside Tracee. He sighed out, staring up at the ceiling. He held his left forearm to his forehead as he felt his girlfriend shift. She moved closer, draping her right arm and leg over his body. Tracee nuzzled her face against his chest. Sam responded by wrapping his right arm around her, pulling her closer. Once comfortable, he reached for the bedspread that had been knocked off in their haste to get at one another. Sam covered their bodies and exhaled, satisfied by their joining. It had been too long—almost four months since the last time. Sam found himself smirking.

“What are you thinking about?” Tracee asked, and then lightly nipped at his chest. “I can taste your smug ass.”

“Just thinking how long its been, that’s all,” he answered. “You know, we haven’t done this for a while… Maybe we needed to let off some steam.”

“ _Mmm_ … Maybe,” she repeated, sliding her palm across his belly.

For a moment, they laid there, Sam idly twirling his fingers in her hair. This was nice, too. Nice and comfortable. Then he shifted his eyes, examining the petite woman beside him. He had always thought she had been cute, and she had the prettiest smile. But it hadn’t been until that carnival—that clearly thrown together punk rock Amazonian costume—that he had realized how sexy his girlfriend could be. The moment he had seen her in that getup, he had had the most intense urge to grab her and find a secluded place to have his way. It had almost been embarrassing how much he had wanted to.

The outfit had showcased how toned Tracee was. He shouldn’t have been surprised by her muscles. He didn’t know much about training with a sword, but surely it involved repeatedly moving the arms up and down. Of course, she would have a toned physique. The ensemble had showed off the flare of her hips and the thickness of her thighs. He _liked_. Sure, he had seen her in Ashland—all of her—but he hadn’t been playing close attention at the time. Maybe it had been the blue fake tribal markings that had been painted on her brown skin which had ultimately drew his attention? Either way, he hadn’t felt such a rush of carnal desire until that moment. He would keep the ten pictures taken on his phone for as long as possible.

Phrases like _mine_ and _made for me_ had come to mind. It had been a pretty strong revelation. But he wouldn’t say it out loud. No way. Tracee would say it was all types of wrong. Hell, it probably was. But… He couldn’t stop the words from forming at the sight of her like that. He couldn’t stop the words from forming now. She was his. He felt it on a fundamental level. Sam wondered if Tracee had thoughts like that about him. Despite the way he had unintentionally distance himself from her recently. The thought caused him to frown. She had been there for him, but he hadn’t returned it.

“Sorry…!” Sam blurted out. Tracee lifted her head, eyes showing confusion at his rushed apology. He cleared in throat as warmth rushed to his cheeks. “I mean… I didn’t mean to be… away for so long.” She raised a brow and smirked at him.

“Please, Samuel,” she said. “I wouldn’t have been thinking of sex with how things were-”

“No,” he cut in, and then chuckled a bit. Tracee smiled at him, sliding her hand up and down his abdomen. “No, I mean…” Sam swallowed, becoming serious. “I meant that I haven’t been a good boyfriend to you lately.” Her smile dropped, but she nodded her head.

“That’s okay,” she said. “You’ve been having a tough time. I wasn’t expecting you to be focusing on me. With your father, I… couldn’t possibly expect…” She trailed off, eyes becoming downcast. “I know you’re not alright.” Sam swallowed, shutting his eyes for a moment. Of course, John dying had contributed to the distancing. But that hadn’t been what he had meant. He inhaled deeply through his nose, and then released through his mouth.

“It was before that,” Sam admitted, opening his eyes. Tracee had returned his gaze, and was now waiting for him to continue. “In Salvation, when Dean and me went after the Demon, I… I didn’t think of anything or anyone else. All I thought about was getting justice. I almost got myself killed running back into a burning house. If Dean hadn’t been there, I don’t know what would have happened. I later told him, still not thinking of anything else, that I _would_ sacrifice my life if I could just kill the Demon.”

Tracee visibly reeled at the confession. She became rigid all over, drawing her lower lip between her teeth. “You…” she started. Her gaze drifted down for a moment before finding his again. She took a breath. “I understand,” she muttered. Sam felt her body gradually relaxing. “I don’t like it, but I understand. You had the goal in mind way before you met me. You don’t have to apologize for thinking of Jessica with Capital D being so close. You don’t have to apologize for wanting that justice.”

“You shouldn’t be so understanding, Tracee,” he told her.

“Maybe I shouldn’t,” she said. Then she shrugged. “I’m going to tell you a secret. Normally, I’m not understanding and I’m skeptical about many things people normally go along with.” Sam held back a chuckle. That was no secret. “But when it comes to people I care about, I can’t help myself. It’s an emotional thing, but maybe it’s a logical thing, too. If a day comes where I’m going to need that same understanding for my actions, I won’t have to worry about being rejected by those I care about—an equal exchange, I guess. So… no, I’m not going to get angry because you think you haven’t been a good boyfriend. Not for a reason like that. Okay?”

“… Okay,” Sam nodded his head. He still felt a little guilty, but this was better than just keeping it inside. Tracee smiled lightly, and then moved to kiss him. A soft, reassuring kiss that made him smile in return. “I’m not gonna do it again,” he whispered against her lips. “I’m not gonna have a one track mind anymore.” Sam pressed harder, deepening the kiss. Tracee responded by climbing on top of him.

“Good,” she said, and then returned the heavy kiss.

Her tongue almost made him forget that he wanted to continue talking. That whole understanding bit had him thinking that they hadn’t discussed his reaction to her previous actions. Sam groaned lightly, feeling her hips begin circling. Unable to help himself, he wrapped both arms around her, guiding her provocative movements. “Wait…” he said once she gave him time to breathe. But he subconsciously went for her lips again, halting his thought process. “I need-” He tried again, but Tracee sensed his desire to continue and did just that. For several long moments, they wound up curling their tongues around each other. Only when he became dizzy from the lack of air did Sam rear back. “W-Wait,” he panted out.

“ _Hm_ …?” Tracee lazily laid on top of him, pinching the skin of his neck between her lips.

Sam almost became distracted again. “We, _uh_ …” He cleared his throat, attempting to gather his thoughts. “Speaking-Speaking of understanding,” he began. “I wanted to talk about… your-your readiness to kill.” His girlfriend abruptly became stiff at his words. She lifted her head, staring him in the eye. Then without warning, she quickly moved away, taking the covers and wrapping them around her body. She had decided to hide herself from him. Sam sat up as she crossed her arms. Her eyes narrowed guardedly.

“My readiness to kill…?” she said, jaw clenching. “If you’re about to-”

“Wait, hear me out,” Sam pleaded. Tracee pressed her lips into a thin line as she averted her gaze. For a moment, he thought she would climb out of bed. But she stayed put, waiting for him to begin again. “I’m… I’m not gonna lie—I was unsettled by it.” She frowned, but didn’t speak. “When you agreed to kill Max if he hurt anyone, I was confused a little. Because you hadn’t had the option of killing before—never mind that he’s human—and you hadn’t grown up killing like I did, so… I guess it was just startling to realize someone _normal_ was quick to choose killing. Afterwards, I guess I just chalked it up to you being a Slayer.”

“That has _nothing_ to do with it,” Tracee protested. “I thought about the situation before deciding that the possibility of killing might happen.”

“I know… I was wrong,” Sam agreed. “You’d kill anything or _anyone_ that would put any of us in danger. I realize this now, but when I saw you kill that demon—kill the human—I guess seeing it actually happen made it all sink in. You’re a Slayer, but you’re also Tracee. Your mentality when it comes to killing is almost completely different from a hunter’s. It’s not ‘saving people, hunting things’ with you. It’s more like… _slay to save_ —doesn’t matter what or who needs to be slayed in order to save. I should have realized it sooner rather than having some-” He shook his head. “-some misconstrued version of how you _should_ be. I shouldn’t have put the Winchester motto on you and expected you to follow it.”

“Does it make you uncomfortable?” Tracee questioned.

“… A little,” Sam quietly admitted. “You’re so intense when you’re fighting. Your style is brutal and precise. When you go for the kill, you _really_ go for it. I’ve never seen someone, who didn’t grow up killing, _so_ committed to the act.” She licked her lips and looked down. “ _But_ ,” he stressed. “I know that when it comes down to it, I wouldn’t want you any other way.” Her brown eyes lifted to meet his. “And it freaked me out to realize that you had held back against Jo, thinking she might be a demon. You held back because you thought I would disapprove. I _don’t_. We were in danger, so you reacted. I won’t ever disapprove of that. But if you hold back against the wrong demon, it could get you killed, and I can’t have that.”

“So…”

“So… Don’t hold back anymore,” he said. “You’re our Slayer. _Be_ our Slayer and _slay_.” The tension in Tracee’s body went away, she had turned her eyes away again. “I mean it, Tracee. You’re protecting. Fighting and killing is just a part of that package for you. I know that. I accept that.”

“Even if it makes you uncomfortable?”

“… I’m gonna tell you a secret,” Sam said. Her eyes returned to him, dubious, yet curious, too. “It kinda turns me on.” Her lips parted in shock, and Sam felt his cheeks flush in response. “Watching you threaten and fight… I think it’s, _uh_ … I don’t know.” He shrugged and smiled sheepishly at her. “I’m attracted to it. I think that’s why it’s a little uncomfortable… because I probably shouldn’t find it so attractive.”

“Are you just saying that to make me feel better?” Tracee asked, smile tugging at her pretty mouth. Sam shook his head. “You’re too much.”

“I think I’m just enough, actually,” he replied, grinning. Finally, he managed to get a giggle out of her. Sam reached for her, pulling her covered body into his lap. He pressed his forehead against hers. “So are we good now?”

“ _Shyeah_ … Real good,” Tracee answered, smiling. Sam breathed a sigh of relief before touching her lips with his own. He laid her down, hovering over her. She gasped in his mouth. “Already…?” She broke the kiss, looking down between their bodies.

“Need to get back up to three,” he told her, which earned him several giggles. She reached for his face with both hands, pulling him down for more kisses. Sam grinned against her mouth, snatching away the covers that separated them.

 

0-0

 

The next morning, Dean found himself working on the Impala again. In was in the process of replacing the wheels at the moment. He had wanted to work on her yesterday, but he and Bobby hadn’t returned to the salvage yard until night had fallen. So he had no choice but to wait. Bobby hadn’t even asked why had had to come pick him up. For that, Dean had been grateful. He really hadn’t wanted to talk about Sam getting some. Honestly, it was the reason he had gotten up so early to work on the Impala. He wanted to run into either of them so soon. Hadn’t wanted to look them in the eye, knowing what they had gotten up to. It had been relatively easy, anyway. Sam and Tracee hadn’t ventured out of that room, even for breakfast.

So hours after working, it came as a bit of a surprise to notice movement out of the corner of his eye. Dean merely glanced at the arrival. Tracee stood before him in her large college t-shirt. She wore jeans that clearly weren’t hers. The shoes weren’t hers either. “Hey,” she greeted, stepping around him towards the trunk of the Impala. She clasped her hands behind her back. Dean released his hold on the wrench and stood up. He acknowledged her presence with a nod before moving to the driver’s side of the vehicle. “You’ve been busy, I see.”

“Yeah, give me another week, maybe two, and I’ll have Baby up and running again,” Dean said. “We’ll be on the road again in no time.”

“Good to hear, I guess,” Tracee replied. She scratched her neck, where she had visible bruising. Dean looked away, trying not to think what that meant. “So… I want to thank you for yesterday.” He groaned dramatically. “No, no—not for… well, kinda, but that’s not what I meant. Yesterday, your brother and I talked, and I think we needed to. It was good to have that time. So I wanted to thank you for letting us have that time and space.”

“Don’t mention it, Trace,” Dean told her. Tracee shuffled a bit in place, eyes darting to the side. “Something else…?”

“Don’t get angry with me, alright?” she muttered. “But talking with Samuel got me thinking. I haven’t exactly been… supportive of you. I kinda assumed that you didn’t need it. I don’t think that’s true.”

“Trace, I’m fine,” Dean stated. “Really.”

“No, I don’t think you are. Maybe not about your father’s death, but _something_ has got you out of sorts,” Tracee said. Voice as calm as her expression. “Samuel might’ve been projecting on you, but he wasn’t wrong for sensing that you’re not all right. Maybe you’re fine, but not completely.” Dean sighed heavily, scratching at his head. “I’m not going to pester you about this, though. One time, I promise. I’m just offering my ear. That offer will be there. Just to let you know, I’m here for you, _too_.”

Tracee took his silence as a decline, so she nodded her head, and then walked off. Dean watched her, feeling his insides tremble. He sucked in a breath and held it. Without prompt, Cassie advice came to mind. “Trace, wait!” he blurted out. The tiny tank turned around. She looked, uncertain if she had heard right. Grimacing, Dean gestured for her to come back. Tracee walked back over, pulling up the jeans she wore. Since they were so big on her, she looked to be sagging. She held onto them by a belt loop. “Why are you wearing Sam’s stuff?” he asked, distractedly, as she made her approach.

“… Oh, I put our clothes in the wash,” she answered with a shrug. “And I couldn’t find my shoes. Is that why you stopped me?”

“No…” Dean bit his lip, looked towards the ground, and then huffed out. “I need to tell you something.” Tracee nodded, silently urging him to continue. The trembles grew. Every instinct told him that this would be a bad idea. She was going to get mad—no question about it. It wasn’t her anger that worried him. It was the fact that telling her went against every instinct. Keep it to yourself. Don’t involve anyone. Be the strong one. It was a mantra he had had for a very long time. And most of that was because of Cassie. But now, her words whispered in his ears, telling him that needed to do this. Maybe he did. Keeping this certain tidbit might just kill him with guilt. “I… lied.”

“Yes…?” Tracee prompted.

Dean swallowed so hard that it was painful. “When, _uh_ , Sam asked if… if dad said anything before he… before he died,” he managed to get out. He noticed Tracee’s stiff jaw, but she did not speak. “He did tell me something… He said… that I needed to save Sam.” Her eyebrows screwed in confusion. “And… if I couldn’t… I’d have to kill him.” Her lips parted and her head reared back, slightly tilted to the left. She blinked several times. Then she still completely still. Oh, okay. Dean had thought her first reaction would be anger, but it appeared as though she was actually thinking logically and processing it.

“He said _WHAT_?!” Oh, there it was. The anger. Tracee appeared to be physically choking on it. She grabbed at her neck and began pacing back and forth, muttering to herself in a different language. It had been so long since he started traveling with her that he could now recognize it as Korean. Still couldn’t understand, but he could recognize it. Tracee then abruptly stopped, holding a palm out towards him. She breathed deeply and shut her eyes. “Okay… okay.” She pressed her lips together, seemingly calming down. She had been pacing for a good five minutes, so maybe the anger was gone. She clapped her hands together, putting on a fake smile. “Alright, so what… What else did he say? What was the explanation for that atrocious piece of advice?”

“That’s just it, Trace, he didn’t say anything else… other than not to tell Sam. He begged me not to,” Dean stated.

“Well, tough shit. You’ve got to tell your brother,” Tracee retorted.

“No! I can’t!”

“ _Fuck_ a dying wish, Dean!” she literally growled. “You’ve already been sitting on this— _suffering_ with this—for almost two weeks! This is not something you can keep from him! Not only does he deserve to know, but you don’t deserve to have this gnawing at your brain day in day out!” He opened his mouth, but his protests fell short. He hadn’t deserved that, he agreed. He hated that his father’s last words had been so heavy. To have it all dwindle to either saving or killing his brother. No explanation—just those two options. Tracee breathed in deeply again. “I swear to God this fucking family and secrets… _Stupid_ Winchesters…!” And there was the British part of her anger.

“Listen, Trace, I can’t just tell him,” Dean insisted. Tracee crossed her arms and glared, waiting for his explanation. Thinking quickly, he blurted out one that might appease her. “We can’t just tell him without anything else to back up why dad would have told me that. Now, I don’t like this any more than you do. I’m confused as hell and angry, too! Springing it on him now, without… without _evidence_ will cause more harm than good, alright? Obviously, dad knew something to leave that kinda warning. We’ve just gotta find out what _he_ knew so we can get ahead of it. There’s _no way_ I’m killing my brother! But I need _time_ to figure out why dad thought I would have no choice.”

“ _Fine_ ,” Tracee said through clenched teeth. “So what do we do? How do we start?”

“I figure… we start with your dream. I’ve been thinking about it, and you had a Slayer dream about Max Miller before we met him, and of course we know Sam and Max share some type of connection,” Dean explained. “If we can find out more about… the other four in your dream, then we might find out why all of them were targeted—why they’re considered special children.”

“Right, Max isn’t enough to compile information,” Tracee agreed with a nod. “If we find out more then we can figure out why Poppa-Winchester came up with that inane ultimatum. And stop it.”

“Alright. So let’s stop standing still. And do something.”

 

0-0

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No more weekly updates until I can push out 2 or 3 chapters of my other story.


	25. Innocence & Evils

With a frustrated growl, Cassie Robinson launched yet another pencil at the wall. She let out a huff, realizing that about eleven pencils had been embedded already. The book in her lap was snapped shut, and then tossed to the edge of the bed. It had been the fifteenth book she had looked through already. Still, there hadn't been any mention of ' _The Connected_.' To think she had thought her day off would be relaxing. Cassie sighed, and then moved to climb out of her bed. Might as well take a break. She had been up since six this morning, and it was approaching noon. She stepped over the pile of books on her way out of the bedroom. She would get them, and the pencils, after she had something to eat.

Cassie stretched her arms up high as she walked through her house. That was still a wonder to be honest. She hadn't planned on having her own house until her mid-forties. But here she was, moving through a house three times as big as her tiny studio apartment. This had all been given to her by a man she had barely known as an adult. Who would have thought a few summers with him would have gained her a place in his will? One would think she had been the late Mayor's lovechild, or something. There were definitely rumors going around. She had chosen to shut her ears to such things. Her priorities were focused on work and… the other aspects her life had taken on.

Almost half a year, and she was knee-deep in the supernatural. If she were all the way honest, most of her free time had gradually become looking through textbooks and journals, practicing with weapons, watching a lot more martial arts films and how-tos, and learning about this world that had been existing since the beginning of time. The life had sucked her in, and she couldn't remember if she had even put up a fight. Not like she could fight herself, after all. She, herself, was supernatural. Going against her own nature had seemed so counterproductive. But. She was steadfast in her decision to not completely submerge herself. No way. It couldn't happen. She couldn't just replace the normal life she had now just because of what happened in 2003. She wouldn't.

Cassie opened her refrigerator door, eyes immediately darting around in search of something to eat. Her eating habits had changed since that fateful day. She had normally ate light during the day. Now, all of her meals were heavy with multiple food groups. Her funds mostly went to buying food nowadays. It was actually pretty fortunate that this house had been given to her. Now, she didn't have to worry about that high rent—only the standard utilities. She supposed she should be grateful for the late Mayor. Cassie grabbed the cream cheese from the bottom shelf. She would start with bagels, then fruit, make some scrambled eggs—with plenty of bacon and ham—and then oatmeal. She would finished it off with apple juice. She idly wondered if all athletes had the same type of appetites as she shut the refrigerator door.

Setting the container of cream cheese down, Cassie went to grab a knife from the drawer. However, the sound of her cell phone ringing caught her attention. She halted, looking towards where the noise had come from. Had she left her phone in the living room? Looking up in thought, she made her way out of the kitchen. Actually, she had. Last night, she had settled in front of the television with her phone and a notepad in order to watch a marathon of Bruce Lee movies.

Cassie reached down to grab her cell phone from the wooden coffee table. She glanced at the caller id, but couldn't recognize the number. Humming thoughtfully, she answered, and the ringing stopped. "Hello…?" she greeted. For a long moment, all she received was silence. Knitting her brow, she repeated her greeting. "Hello?" Someone cleared their throat, and then said her name. Cassie blinked once, and then her lips parted. She knew his voice. "… Dean," she almost whispered. She hadn't expected to hear from him. It had been weeks. She hadn't even heard from Tracee yet. Running fingers through her curled hair, Cassie licked her lips. "Is this your new number?"

"Uh _, yeah, got a new phone—thought I'd maybe get a new number, too_ ," Dean answered. Cassie nodded, although he couldn't see it. She would save it under his name after the call ended. " _So,_ um _, I didn't just call you to, you know, breathe in your ear_." An uneasy chuckle left him. She nervously chewed her lower lip, waiting for him to continue. The last phone conversation she had had with someone in their trio had not been good at all. She didn't want a repeat. She hoped Tracee was okay… Dean paused, taking a deep breath. " _I took… I took your advice. I told Trace about what dad said to me_."

"Oh," Cassie silently let out a sigh of relief. No one had been hurt. Physically. That was good. Unless, of course, Tracee had attacked after learning this huge secret involving Sam. "How'd she take it? Full on British?"

"And _Korean_ ," Dean chirped. " _You know, the double whammy_." Cassie found herself wincing. She knew about that. Tracee had five levels of anger. The first was mild. The second, the accents started coming out, usually British. Third, Korean words spewed. Fourth was the double whammy, and more than likely, she would start getting violent. The last, and fortunately, Cassie hadn't experienced it, was the tundra—cold, bitter, harsh and void of anything but. Tracee had told her she had unleashed that level of anger on Dean before because of his callous words to her. They had both said things they hadn't meant in the heat of the moment. Those levels had nothing on Slayer rage, though. Cassie idly wondered if all Slayers had that. She had gotten pretty heated when she attacked the ghost truck, after all. " _But once she calmed down, we came up with a sorta solution_."

"And what's that?" Cassie asked, shaking thoughts of Slayer rage out of her mind for now.

" _We're… we're trying to figure out why dad said what he said_ ," Dean stated. " _Trace had a dream awhile back—one of her Slayer dreams_ -" Cassie pursed her lips at the mention of 'Slayer dreams' despite knowing it wasn't directed at her. "- _about Sam and five other people. We already met one of the people in her dream, besides Sam, I mean. Max Miller_." Cassie nodded. She knew Max. Every time she had called Missouri, he would be the one to answer the phone before passing it along to the older psychic. " _We figure that if we can find more information on the rest of them, then we find the reason for dad's warning._   _They all have something to do with the Demon we're hunting_."

"Okay, so what's the next step?"

"…  _We used one of our new sources_ ," Dean continued. " _This guy's a genius, or whatever, and he gave us the names of two of the people in Tracee's dream. Or, at least, we hope they are. See, these two had the same thing happen to them that Sam went through as a baby_."

"Nursery fires," Cassie supplied.

" _Yeah…_ Jeez _, how much does Trace tell you_?"

"Enough," Cassie shrugged. "But only two names? I though you said it was five other people."

" _Yeah, but he only managed to find two other people with the same background_ ," Dean muttered. " _The others might not have had the same thing happen to them. It's Trace's guess, anyway. Two names are better than none, though. But we've hit a roadblock. You see, we can't let Sam know about any of this until_ we _know_.  _We can't get any more information on these two without Sam trying to get suspicious_."

"What do you need me to do?" Cassie asked with no hesitation.

" _I… I_ …" He seemed at a loss for words. " _I wanted ask if you can do me a favor. With this stuff, I don't want people I don't know looking into it. I need someone I can trust, but I wouldn't want you to_ -"

"I know this is important to you, and Tracee, and I can do more than you right now, so what do you need?"

" _These two people—we need more information on them. Trace thought you'd be a good choice since you're neutral. You can use your profession as an excuse_."

"Okay," she replied simply. "I'll find them and interview them."

" _Okay? Just like that_?"

"Just like that, Dean," she told him. "Just send me the names, and I'll call you back once I've got something."

" _Thanks, Cassie… I… I really appreciate this_ ," Dean said. She felt herself smiling. " _I'll text you the names. Talk to you later_."

"Good bye, Dean."

" _Oh, hey, wait_ …!" he stopped her from pulling the phone from her ear. "…  _So what are you wearing_?" Surprised giggled broke through her mouth. " _Let me guess—those purple pajamas? Or that lacy thong with a t-shirt?_ "

"Good  _bye_ , Dean," Cassie repeated with a roll of her eyes.

He merely laughed out loud, telling her he would talk to her later. She shook her head and ended the call. Pulling the phone from her ear, she couldn't wipe the smile from her face. Well, this was good. He was being his regular self, wasn't he? That meant that the burden had been lessened, after all. She huffed lightly, lifting up her shirt to tug on the band of her lace panties. How had he known that she still sometimes chose to wear this particular outfit to bed? The chime of her cell phone alerted her to a new message. Quickly, she opened her texts to find the one from Dean's new number.

_Andrew Gallagher, Scott Carey_.

Cassie hummed as she stared at the text message. Two names, both males. Dean hadn't told her much about the same background, but she could infer that they were probably both Sam's age, equipped with psychic abilities, along with Max Miller. It would probably be tough getting them to open up if she managed to find them. But for some reason, the two had something to do with a Slayer dream. A dangerous demon. And a horrible warning that had caused both Tracee and Dean to freak. Too important to ignore. She had ignored her Slayer dreams before, and she decided not to anymore. She wouldn't ignore Tracee's dreams either. They all had too much riding on this now.

Besides, she needed a break from trying to find  _The_   _Connected_.

 

0-0

 

Dean felt himself grinning, instantly recognizing the song that had come on the radio. A classic. So he turned up the volume as he sped down the stretch of road. He ignored the speed limit of 55 and went beyond it just as the lyrics kicked in. The Impala sounded better than ever. After weeks cooped up at Bobby's, they were finally back on the road. Today was shaping up to be really good. " _Whoo_!" Dean couldn't help but exclaim his excitement. He just felt enthused. More enthused about a job than he ever had, maybe. Actually, it might just be the fact that his Baby was up and running, too. "Just listen to her purr! You ever heard anything so sweet?"

"You know, if you two want to get a room…" Sam trailed off with a smirk.

" _Ah_ , don't listen to him, Baby," Dean ignored his brother's sarcasm and chose to coo at the perfection of his vehicle. "He doesn't understand us." Sam only huffed out a laugh.

"You're in a good mood," he commented.

"Why shouldn't I be?" Dean asked. "Got my car. Got a case. Things are looking up."

"Well, calm down, Mr. Sunshine," Sam told him as he reached to lower the volume. He then glanced back at his girlfriend in the backseat. Five miles into the drive from Bobby's, Tracee had laid down, curled up on her side with her back facing the front. Using Sam's jacket as a blanket, the tiny tank had barely moved at all. She had never seemed so tired before. It was a little odd. "Tracee didn't get much sleep last night. I don't think she went to sleep at all."

" _Dude_ , there's a reason I didn't ask about the hickeys on your neck," Dean grumbled with a shake of his head. "I don't wanna hear how you two were making out all night long."

"No!" Sam protested, attempting to cover the various dark marks on his neck with his hand. Then he dropped it, chuckling. "I mean, well,  _yeah_ …" he admitted, unable to stop the smug look from crossing his face. Cheeks flushed and all that. Dean shook his head again. "But mostly we were just talking." His brother turned his full attention on him. "About my abilities." Dean tried not to flinch. "Basically, we both agreed not to experiment with my abilities. We should just stick to premonitions for now. So she was up all night looking through her handbook for information. I woke up this morning, and she was still reading. I don't think she found anything yet."

That was actually expected. The bookworm that she was, Tracee probably wanted to know as much information about possible about psychics. And she didn't want Sam knowing her true intentions, so persuading him to not think about his abilities in the first place benefited them both. It really had been a good idea to tell her, after all. Now, he had someone in his corner to do the heavy lifting, so to speak. For a while, he didn't have to worry about that vague warning left behind. The tiny tank, and her  _bestie_ , were on the case. Thinking about said bestie managed to produce a smile on Dean's face.

He cleared his throat, and focused back on the road before Sam could notice. "So no more practicing?" Dean questioned. His brother shook his head. "Well, good for now. Leaves us time to focus on better things." Sam scoffed.

"Better things…?" he repeated in disbelief. "A couple of severed heads and a pile of dead cows is considered better things to us. Wow, what a life we have."

"Living the dream, Sammy," Dean retorted with a wide grin. His brother only chuckled and shook his head. "How much further to Red Lodge?"

" _Uh_ , about another three hundred miles."

"Good," he replied, and then put more pressure on the gas.

 

0-0

 

Tracee watched as Dean successfully persuaded the morgue attendant to leave his post. Too bad his persuasive skills hadn't managed to move the local Sheriff. So now, they had to impersonate personnel of a hospital in order to find information on the latest victim. The young male hurriedly scurried from behind his desk and quickly left the room. Hopefully, he would be gone long enough. Sam shut the door after the attendant left, and she left his side to grab pairs of latex gloves from the box on the desk. "Hey, those Satanists in Florida, they marked their victims, didn't they?" Dean questioned, grabbing a pair of gloves from the box as well. He handed them off to his brother.

"Yeah, reverse pentacle on the forehead," Sam stated. He took the gloves, and then headed in just as Tracee finished putting on her pairs.

"When did you go to Florida? Can we go back? I'm all for warmer climates and bikinis," she said, following after Sam.

"Trust me, Trace, you do  _not_  want to go to Florida," Dean moved to follow after her. "So much  _effed_  up crap happens in Florida."

"California then?"

They approached Sam just as he was opening a compartment. He wheeled out the corpse. There was a plastic box set between the legs. Presumably, the head was in there. The label on top of the box marked the corpse as Christina Flanagan—the latest victim in a brutal murder. Tracee stepped to the left, partially pulling back the cover that draped over the victim's body. She had wanted to examine the cause of death. Her finger lightly touched the ridges of the neck as she narrowed her eyes. Clean. She wondered what type of blade had done this as she listened to the Winchesters bicker about which one of them was going to open the box. Rolling her eyes, she shifted her attention to the plastic box.

"You're both weak," she announced, moving to grab the container. "Honestly—doing this for so long, and yet you're squeamish." Tracee placed the plastic box on the examination slab. She removed the lid, and her nose was affronted with the putrid smell of death and stabilizing chemicals. "Oh my  _God_! Her eyes are still open!" she squealed as she took a step back from the box. Sam chuckled and shook his head, approaching her side.

"Looks like you're just as weak as us," he remarked, nudging her arm with his elbow. Tracee pursed her lips, but didn't try to protest. Dean walked over, tilting his head as he stared down at the severed body part.

"Well, no pentagram," he stated.

Grimacing, Tracee peered into the plastic containing again. Her gaze darted all over, brain already coming up with a theory. "Since there's no other trauma that I can see to the head, it looks like the intention was just to kill," she began. "Plus, her body was just left after the killing strike. Satanists would probably prop her in some way—mark her in some way. From the cut itself, I'd say we're dealing with an established serial killer. He or she didn't just start. They probably have more kills on their record than the two we heard about here. I don't think this is an escalation from mutilated cows. Like the Sheriff said, they probably don't have anything to do with each other."

"You actually believe that crap about cows' bodies splitting open?" Dean questioned.

"Oh no, that sounded cracked," Tracee answered. "Something or someone is mutilating cows, but I don't think it's our serial killer."

"Let's not rule out Satanists just yet," Dean continued. "I mean, maybe we should,  _uh_ , look in her mouth, see if this wacko stuffed anything down her throat. You know, kinda like the moth in the  _Silence of the Lambs_." He chuckled, patting his brother's arm. "Why don't you open her up, Sammy?"

"What?" Sam visibly tensed at the suggestion.

"Yeah, 'Put the lotion in the basket.'" Dean gestured towards the head. Tracee snorted, trying to stifle the laugh. The grin on his face made it clear that he had been proud of his impression. Sam looked at her, clearly not finding his brother as amusing.

"It's funny, darling," she said with a shrug of her shoulders.

"It's  _morbid_ ," Sam corrected with a huff. He took several breaths to calm his nerves before his fingers reached for the mouth of the corpse. His own lips twitched several times as his fingers worked their way through the mouth. Tracee watched his face, in mild amusement, as his expression went through various stages of disgust. Honestly, it looked like he was about to be sick. "Dean, get me a bucket."

"Why? You got something?"

"Nope, just gonna puke," Sam explained, taking his hands away. Dean only rolled his eyes. After a pause, he told his brother to lift the lip up again. "What?" He actually sounded affronted. "You  _want_  me to throw up," he accused.

"No, no, no, I think I saw something," Dean stated. He was the one to go for the upper lip. Sam and Tracee leaned in close. There was a small disfigurement on the upper gums. "What—is that a hole?" Sam reached forward again, pressing against the gums near the 'hole.' To their astonishment, a sharp tooth slipped out. "That's a fang." Dean stood up straight, along with his brother. They both took their fingers away from the severed head. "Retractable set of vampire fangs. You've got to be kidding me."

"Well, this changes things," Sam muttered.

"You think…?" Dean asked, sarcastically. "Trace, you couldn't sense anything?"

"No, despite her being a vampire, this is a real corpse," she replied. "She's dead—there's nothing for me to  _sense_. Might as well be dust. But you know that this means, don't you? This isn't a normal serial killer."

"Yeah, could be a hunter."

 

0-0

 

With her arms crossed, Tracee sat in the backseat of the Impala, waiting for the Winchesters to come out of a local bar. They had wanted to gather evidence on a possible nest. After the three of them had left the morgue, Tracee had found out more about the latest victim. Apparently, she hadn't been a native to Red Lodge. She had only gotten into town a few months back. She had a part-time job that had paid her under the table as she had no proof of residence. Not surprising, her having been a vampire and all. The first victim, in this town, hadn't been as forthcoming with the details, but they had found out that the first victim had visited this particular bar quite often before his head had been discovered. The second victim, too, so that's why Dean and Sam had gone in.

It was the only lead they had. The reason they had decided to stick around had been to confirm the theory. As of right now, they only knew that the second victim had been a vampire, not the first. So before they packed up and left, they had wanted to make sure. Admittedly, Tracee also had a nagging feeling about the whole thing. Something was  _off_. This nagging feeling wouldn't go away. Coupled by an annoying buzz at the base of her neck ever since they had pulled up to this bar, this case was starting to become a mystery she wanted to solve.

Tracee sat up straighter, seeing the brothers walk out of the bar's entrance. However, they did not walk towards the car. She uncrossed her arms and leaned towards the closed window, watching as they headed around the corner of the building instead. She narrowed her eyes and hummed, wondering their intentions. She didn't have to wonder for long. Her eyes caught sight of a figure, a man's silhouette, moving in their direction. The figure had followed the brothers down a dark alley.

Frowning, Tracee pushed open the back door, cautiously stepping out. Once she shut the door behind her, she moved quickly in the alley's direction, making sure to carefully walk so that her footsteps wouldn't make much noise as she followed after the unknown man. She lifted the hood of her jacket, glad that she switched from her jean one back at the motel, because it had started to drizzle a little. The man rounded another corner, obviously looking around for the Winchesters. Once he stopped moving forward, Tracee made her approach.

"Excuse me…?" she spoke up. The man sharply turned to face her. He was a dark-skinned man, looking to be close to his thirties. His hair was shaved, buzzed cut, and he had a short dark beard around his mouth. With dark eyes, he focused his sight on her, staring suspiciously. This was a man she hadn't seen before, and so she kept her distance. However, she couldn't sense anything supernatural about him. "Can I help you with something?" In the silence that followed, the man's shoulders gradually relaxed.

"Not tonight, sweet thing," he replied, having the nerve to show a smile. "I'm taking care of a few concerns of mine."

"That's funny," Tracee sneered, taking offense to the implication. "You happen to be following after two of  _my_  concerns." The man lost his smile, but her words were a big enough distraction. He hadn't seen Dean and Sam sneak up on him. Hadn't realized until his back was slammed against the nearby wall. The older brother held a knife to the man's throat. Smirking, she stepped closer to the three. She leaned against the raised concrete and shoved her hands into the pockets of her jacket. The two had him pinned by the shoulders, so she wasn't worried about retaliation.

"Would you put that thing away? I'm  _not_  a vampire," the man protested.

"Oh, we already know  _that_ ," Dean stated. "Because if you were a vampire, you'd already be dust… Isn't that right, Trace?"

"That's right," she crooned. She wouldn't allow a vampire to so boldly go after the Winchesters. If even a smidgen of killer intent was felt, that vampire would be dust, no question about it. But just because this guy wasn't a vampire did not mean he wasn't dangerous, which was the reason Dean and Sam still had him against the wall. And since he had so easily mentioned the word 'vampire' in the first place, he was most likely the one hunter they had formed the theory about. "Which begs the question… Why are you following them?"

"I heard them in the bar, asking questions," the man said.

"So you assumed  _they_  were vampires?  _Smart_."

The man frowned, clearly not liking the sarcastic compliment. Then he took on a thoughtful expression. "Wait…" he muttered. His eyes darted between the three of them. "You're Sam and Dean Winchester." Tracee raised a brow, surprised that this man seemed to know who they were. Slowly, the two released their hold on him as she pushed herself from the concrete wall. His eyes focused on her again. "And you're the black girl that travels with them."

" _Excuse_  you…?!  _Black girl_?!" Tracee hissed out. She felt her face hardened. Immediately, she was offended. Immediately, felt hot anger swirling within her. This stranger had just referred to her as something she hadn't been called since  _middle school_. That might as well have been her bloody nickname with the amount of times she had been called that. This stranger had known Dean and Sam's names, but she had been called something else? Was this how it felt when she hadn't gotten others' names wrong? No. This was worse. Tracee let out a bark of humorless laughter. "I  _got_  your black girl!"

"Trace, calm down," Dean turned to her, holding up a pacifying hand. Tracee growled as she folded her arms over her chest. Still, at his behest, she stifled her anger. The scowl could not be wiped from her face, though. Satisfied with that, Dean turned back to the man. "How do you know who we are?"

The man warily stared at her for a few moments more, and then focused on Dean. "I'm sorry. It's just what I heard." He tilted his head, indicating that they all should follow him. He headed back to the parking lot, and the three silently agreed to follow, if only for more information. It was still a mystery as to how this guy knew of them. Even if he hadn't known all of their names. Glaring at the man's back, Tracee watched as he opened a door to a red car. "The name's Gordon Walker," he introduced himself as he pulled out a secret compartment behind the driver's seat. There were a plethora of weapons, confirming his hunter status. "Met your old man once—hell of a guy. Great hunter," Gordon continued. "Heard he passed. I'm sorry."

"So you heard of us through our dad?" Sam questioned.

"Not exactly…" Gordon said. "From what I hear, you guys are great trackers, good in a tight spot. Word travels fast. You know how hunters talk."

"There's a  _hunter_  grapevine?" Tracee rolled her eyes.

"I guess there's a lot your old man didn't tell you," Gordon summarized.

"You have no idea," Sam muttered. "But anyway… Those two severed heads—they were yours? Vampires?"

" _Yep_ ," the man replied, pride seeping into his voice. "Been here two weeks." Tracee felt her lip curl up as Dean asked the location of the nest. "Look,  _uh_ , real nice to meet you folks, but I've got this one covered. I've been at this a year." He slid the compartment back in place. "I killed a  _fang_  back in Austin, tracked the nest all the way up here. I'll finish it." She may have been biased because of the sour first impression he had left with her, but Tracee felt that there was something not quite right with this man. She especially had not liked his use of the word fang either. Besides, the nagging feeling hadn't gone away even after receiving the confirmation.

"Alright," Dean told him. "Good luck out there."

"Yeah, thanks," Gordon said with a nod of his head. He climbed into the driver's seat of his vehicle. "And,  _uh_ , hey, maybe if we see each other again, I'll buy you a drink, huh?" Not waiting for a response, the man turned the key in the ignition and started up his car. He drove off without a backwards glance.

"So… we're just gonna let him go?" Sam asked.

"Why not?" Dean scratched at his head. "It's not our hunt, Sammy." Then his green eyes focused on Tracee. "Unless you have something to add, Trace."

"Why?"

"Well, we're dealing with vampires—your calling card, remember?" Dean explained. "When it comes to vampires, Slayers probably trumps hunters, right? So it's your call. Your show. What do you want to do?" Both brothers stared expectedly at her. On one hand, she didn't very much care what happened to Gordon Walker. If he wanted to take on a nest by himself without backup, then that was his business. On the other hand, this whole investigation seemed too strange for her tastes. Straight answers hadn't really added up. Half of the reason they had come to this town had been explained, but not the other half. More than likely, the mystery would gnaw at her brain if they packed up and left now.

"Fine, I think we should follow him," Tracee decided.

"Don't sound so enthused, Trace."

"What? I don't think I like him."

"You don't like a lot of people, so that's actually pretty normal," Sam commented. Tracee playfully told him to shut up. He only chuckled and draped an arm around her shoulders, leading her over to the Impala. Dean walked by their side. She could just about sense his approval with her decision. The three loaded themselves into the car, and quickly began tailing after the hunter on a mission.

They had to drive carefully, with the headlights off, as to not alert the man. Eventually, Gordon's vehicle stopped just before hitting an old mill. Dean came to a stop a little ways away, parking the Impala. They watched as the man exited his vehicle and make his way over to the mill. After waiting a few moments, the three got out of their vehicle. Dean went around to open the trunk. Tracee and Sam followed, stepping to his side just as he lifted the tire lid's compartment. The two brothers grabbed guns while she had reached for a single wooden stake. After gathering their weapons, the trunk was quietly shut.

Now equipped, the three headed straight towards the mill. Strange, though… It didn't appear to be a nest. The mill, though old, seemed to be in working order, judging from the smoke rising and the lights that were still on. Nests were usually abandoned buildings that wouldn't draw much attention. Why would vampires hole up here? Was it even a nest? This just didn't make any sense. Still, she perhaps should focus on the task at hand for now. They had made it to the mill, and were now maneuvering through, seeking out the obvious sounds of struggle.

Once they reached the source of the noise, Tracee saw that Gordon hadn't been a match for one vampire. The man laid there, weak from the struggle, about to be decapitated by a large industrial chainsaw. Sam quickly moved, reaching to grab Gordon's ankle. He pulled the man from underneath the chainsaw's path in the nick of time. The vampire sharply turned, growling with his fangs bared. The proof was right there in front of her, but… the tingles were different. They were… muffled? If she closed her eyes, she wouldn't truly be able to know that it was a vampire in front of her.

Still, the vampire lunged at them, compelling her body to react. She shot forward, deflecting the sloppy right hook by swatting it down with her left hand. Her right hand, curled into a fist, rammed hard against the man's temple. The strike sent him crashing hard into a machine with many buttons. He recovered, but stared at her gob smacked. She didn't give him time to retaliate. Lifting her leg, she brought it back down in an axe kick. His body slammed against the floor. Tracee grabbed the back of his uniform, lifting him to his knees. She struck his face three times in rapid succession with her left first, and then brought her knee to his gut then his face.

The vampire's head sprung back, and the rest of his body followed. On his back, his chest was exposed. Tracee pulled the stake from the waistband of her jeans and raised it high. She dropped down in a squat, putting most of her weight into plunging the sharp end into the vampire's chest. His mouth opened to scream, but his body was already crumbling to dust. Tracee tugged on the stake just before the entire body disintegrated. With a sigh, she stood to her full height, tilting her head to the left then right. She rolled her shoulders, and then shifted her attention to the three men. They each wore varying expressions of shock. She licked her lips, and then arched her brow.

"Wanna know my name  _now_?"

 

0-0

 

The waitress brought over three more shots, and Dean reached into his pocket to grab his wallet. The four of them had come back to the local bar to celebrate. Even Tracee, who had never been one for alcohol had participated in downing shots. Sam, of course, not so much. "No, no! I got it," Gordon interrupted him. This would be the fifth time he had paid for shots. "Really, I insist." Dean shrugged, relaxing in his seat as he eyed the man that was so willing to pay for their drinks. He placed a couple of bills on the waitress' tray. "Thank you, sweetie." The platinum blonde haired waitress walked away, and the shots were grabbed from the table. Gordon held up his shot, wanting a toast. "Another one bites the dust— _literally_."

Dean and Tracee clinked their glasses with his before downing their shots. Sam remained relaxed in his chair, fingers clasped together in front of him. Tracee slammed her glass down, giggling. She had been doing that ever since she had taken her first shot. "All in a day's work!" Tracee exclaimed. Her head dropped down before springing back up with a wide grin on her face. Dean shook his head, wondering if it had been a mistake giving her alcohol.

"Tracee…" Gordon said her name with a drawl. He laughed out loud. "I cannot believe what you did, my friend. That was beautiful. You're a little slugger, aren't you?" Tracee rapidly nodded her head, almost falling out of her chair in her enthusiasm. Sam frowned, righting her before she did. "You know, awhile back, I heard there were people who could actually pull off a dusting, but to think I would be able to see it. Almost died a few times, trying to do it myself!"

"Yep—leave it to the  _professionals_!" Tracee slapped at her chest. Then coughed because she must have hit herself too hard. "We run this!" She laughed again, grinning stupidly. "No… no… no… no silly boys!"

"You alright there, Sammy?" Dean asked, noticing his brother's continued silence. He hadn't said much of anything since they had left the old mill. Sam sniffed a bit, gaze darting over to Tracee once before answering.

"I'm fine," he replied.

"Well, lighten up a bit, Sammy!" Gordon attempted to cajole.

" _He's_  the only one that gets to call me that," Sam retorted, his Bitchface prominent. Dean almost rolled his eyes as he took a swig of his beer.

" _Shyeah_!" Tracee agreed, excitedly. "On-Only… Only Dean because… cuz… cuz Dean's nasty. He's the nasty one!"

The gulp of beer came right back up. Dean coughed and sputtered it back into the glass mug. He never should have made that joke. "Okay, Trace, I think you've had enough!" he exclaimed. "Sam, take her back to the room. She's  _done_."

"Yeah, yeah, she shouldn't have been drinking,  _anyway_ , but okay," Sam muttered, standing from his chair. Had  _that_  been the reason his brother had been irritated? Dean couldn't stop the eye roll as Sam helped Tracee out of her chair. "Come on, let's go and sleep this off." The tiny tank whined out, but didn't actually use words. She stumbled into Sam, grabbing him around the middle with her arm and reaching for another glass with her free hand. "No, no, no—let's just get you to bed." Sam halted her reach for the beer. Tracee let out another unintelligible whine, but then nodded her head in agreement. The two began to make their way towards the door.

Dean reached into the pocket of his jacket. "Sammy!" he said, catching his brother's attention. Sam turned back around, barely stopping Tracee from falling to the floor. Apparently, the tiny tank was going to be a handful. Dean tossed the keys, and it was almost impressive that they were caught while holding onto a drunken Tracee. "Don't do anything weird to her while she's like that."

"I'm not a pervert, Dean!" Sam snapped, clearly annoyed by the teasing.

" _Shyeah_ , you are!" Tracee laughed out. "Oh my God! Oh my God—I'm gonna be ravished! He's gonna  _ravish_  me! Save me, Dean!" Said brother rubbed his temple as Tracee giggled loudly. Yeah, she couldn't have any more alcohol if this happened every time. It had only been twenty minutes ago where her Slayer-self had been so badass, and now she had been reduced to a drunken mess.

"And on  _that_  note…" Sam led his girlfriend to the exit.

"I don't think your brother likes me very much," Gordon mumbled after the two of them had left.

" _Nah_ , he's like that with every guy that hits on his girlfriend," Dean told him.

"Oh! Oh, oh, my bad—I didn't know," Gordon sounded genuinely astonished. "I would have never… Anyway, I meant no offense." Dean waved off his concern. Sam still felt some type of way about Ash. At least, Tracee hadn't flirted back this time. "But in all seriousness, that girl is something else. For someone so small, she packs a hellava punch."

"Yup, that's our tank," Dean agreed. "She's something like our vampire specialist. Been trained for this most of her life, so yeah, she's the heavy hitter."

"Well, you two definitely lucked out with her," he replied. "I mean, the way she moves—I could barely keep up."

"Yeah, yeah…" For some reason, he found this continued line of conversation uncomfortable. Honestly, Dean didn't want Gordon to know. He seemed to be in the dark about Slayers like most hunters. Probably should just keep it that way. So after clearing his throat, he decided to switch subjects. "So,  _uh_ , you say you've been at this for a year?"

Fortunately, the conversation did switch easily. Once Dean got him talking about the various hunts he had been on, Gordon wouldn't shut up. Most of his hunts centered on vampires. The guy was obviously obsessed with them. Then he began talking about how he got into the life in the first place. A vampire had killed his sister. Dean supposed the obsession made sense then. That one thing triggered the life he had now. The rest of his family had turned their backs on him, leaving him no choice but to get answers on his own. His first kill had ended up being the vampire that had attacked his sister. Dean got the sense that even that hadn't been enough. Had Gordon even stopped to grief on his journey of revenge? Probably not. The way he spoke about filling the hole in his chest with killing, and the black and white of the world they lived in, made it clear that he hadn't truly gotten over what happened to him when he had been eighteen.

Dean frowned, wondering if he hadn't had help dealing with his dad's death, would the hole in his chest be larger. Just as large? Just as dark? Gordon obviously hadn't had any help. Dean had. Tracee, Cassie, even his annoyingly persistent brother had been a help. He had dealt and grieved John Winchester's death. There was a still a hole, to be honest, but that hole wasn't threatening to consume him anymore. The hurt was bearable, and he didn't have to fake as much as he thought he would.

"So what about you?" Gordon took time out of his rant to give his own question. "I mean, what happened to me was a long time ago, but your dad… it's got to be rough." Dean clenched his jaw. He may have dealt. He may have grieved. But… That didn't mean he hadn't felt the guilt that went along with it. Thinking about it, why wouldn't he? Dean had been in a situation where death had been around the corner, and then suddenly he had been  _fine_. Then John had died. He was the reason his dad was dead. He hadn't told Cassie, but that was a huge part of why hadn't wanted to think about it. No way could he share something like that with Sam, though. He couldn't do that to him.

Dean rubbed at his earlobe. "It was…" he answered. "It was, and,  _uh_ … I'm gonna get the bastard that killed him. But for now, just gotta take it one day at a time. Keep my game face on for my brother, and keep it moving."

"Good for you, Dean," Gordon nodded his head. He lifted his almost empty glass of beer. "To John."

"To your sister," Dean replied, raising his own glass. His fellow hunter gave a tight smile, and then clinked their glasses together. After a beat of silence, Dean cleared his throat. "So,  _uh_ , maybe you want help taking out this nest after all?"

"Yeah, maybe you three can actually help me find the damn thing."

"Hey, man, you said it yourself—we're  _great_  trackers."

 

0-0

 

Sam sighed lightly as he dried his hands on the towel that hung from the metal rack. He was irritated. He had been irritated since leaving the mill. It had started when Gordon Walker had made eyes at his girlfriend, and had only escalated from there. He had been so impressed with her that he had offered to buy her drinks, and then had insisted and persisted until Tracee had eventually accepted his gratitude. Tracee, who had never drank alcohol—at least, he hadn't seen it—had five shots of liquor. Now, he had to deal with two plastered people whenever Dean decided to call for pickup.

After turning off the faucet, Sam turned stared at the bathroom door. He breathed deeply through his nose, mentally preparing himself. A couple of minutes ago—actually ten; admittedly, he had been hiding for a few of those minutes—he had managed to get Tracee onto their bed. She had passed out on the drive to the motel, and he had been grateful for that, to be honest. It had been an uncomfortable ride. She had called him 'daddy long legs' more than once, and had made numerous attempts to sit in his lap and demand that he let her suck his face. So uncomfortable… in the sense that he had to fight himself not to give into her demands, least they wreck. And that was a crap storm he hadn't wanted to face from his brother. So he had deflected her attempts and dissuaded her from drunken kisses. To which she had pouted and whined before passing out.

Sam took another breath. If she had woken up, he would have to evade her advances again. Frowning, he blamed his problems on Gordon. If he hadn't nearly forced his girlfriend to drink, they would be having their own little celebration right now, and with Dean being out, the timing would have been perfect. And Tracee had been so impressive, too, taking out that vampire. He had actually been able to keep up, and see the hard dance she had inflicted. It had been nothing like her fight against Jo, but at least he had been able to see it this time. He had planned on personally congratulating her, but no. Here he was, only thoughts of cold showers on his mind.

Sighing, Sam opened the bathroom door and walked out. He had expected to see Tracee still curled up on their bed. However, she wasn't there. "Tracee…?" he called out, eyes darting around the room. He spotted her, sitting at the table next to the door. With her hands on her head, elbows propped on the table's surface and back hunched, she appeared to not have heard him. Sam approached her, and she didn't react. "Tracee, you okay?" he questioned, noticing that her eyes were squeezed shut.

"No," she mumbled. "I've got a really bad headache." She groaned out in quite the dramatic manner. "Oh my God! I'm never drinking again!"

"You're hungover? Already?" Sam's eyebrows shot up in surprise.

"It's why I don't drink," Tracee explained. She rubbed at her forehead as though it would soothe her. "The effects last for maybe two hours, and then  _boom_ —hangover time! Fast metabolism, remember?"

"Guess that makes sense since alcohol has calories," Sam stated. "Why'd you end up drinking this time?" The frown on her face caused his own mouth to mirror hers. He sat down in the chair opposite of her. "Hey, tell me what's going on." Obviously, something was bothering her, and it might have been the real reason she had accepted drinks from Gordon. Under normal circumstances, Tracee wouldn't allow just anyone to change her firm  _no_  to an  _alright, you unnecessarily pink gums-having bastard_.

Tracee slowly removed her hands from her head. Fingers curled, she placed her hands on the table. Then she let out a deep sigh. "I don't know, I guess…" Again she sighed. "I wanted to stop the nagging." Sam chose not to speak, knowing that she would elaborate once she formed the words in mind. "Ever since we met Bruce, this nagging feeling hasn't gone away. Maybe even before that. It got louder after I killed the vampire. I didn't feel good about it—not at all." Tracee shook her head. "So I thought alcohol would stifle the nagging, but it's back with a vengeance."

"What's the nagging about?" Sam questioned.

"This entire case! I mean, we came to this town, looking for a monster with a penchant for mutilating cows and severed heads," Tracee explained. "Instead, we got a hunter and  _vampires_. What brought us here doesn't quite match up to what we found. And that vampire I staked tonight…" She trailed off, gaze lowering to the table. "I keep replaying it in my head, and… he was definitely a vampire, but sensing him was different. Plus, he was in a uniform. He was by himself. It almost seems like he was just  _working_. The second victim had a job, too, and I feel like… I killed needlessly."

"He was attacking Gordon," Sam stated. "He was going to kill him if we didn't show up."

"I know, I know," she said. "But… something isn't right about all this. And this bloody headache isn't helping either."

Sam watched her in silence for several moments, sensing her distress. It wasn't like her. Usually, she was very quick-witted about stuff. It was like she was hitting a roadblock, and the more she thought about it, the more frustrated she got. A vicious cycle he hadn't noticed she had put herself in. He also wondered what made this job so different. Honestly, he had a weird feeling about it, too. Ever since they had discovered the second victim to be a vampire. Tracee was right. Things weren't adding up even though the obvious threat had been revealed.

With a sigh, Sam stood up, taking her hand. Tracee stared up at him, brow knitted close together. "Come on," he said, gesturing over to the beds. "Come here." Without hesitation, she stood from her chair. Sam led her over, and then sat down on their bed. He guided her to sit sideways on his lap. "I think…" he began, resting his right hand against her closest thigh. His other hand lifted to gently massage the back of her neck. "You need to relax." Tracee frowned, dipping her chin. She sighed through her nose and shut her eyes. "You're overanalyzing the little stuff, and that's making you miss the big picture." She hummed in agreement, tilting her body closer to his, forehead pressing against his neck. Sam smiled, moving his hand down to slide up and down her back.

"You're right," Tracee murmured. "But it's not like I can just stop with the little things."

"I know, so… I say I go out and get you some aspirin for your headache, and some  _Twizzlers_ ," Sam suggested. "When I get back, we could bounce ideas off each other. I know it helps, and I know you like doing it. So what do you say?"

"I say that sounds nice," Tracee replied, softly. She shifted her head to look him in the eyes. "You're so good to me, Samuel." She lightly poked at his chest, finger circling the highest button of his shirt. "And maybe afterwards, if Dean's not back… We could bounce something else…" Her eyebrows raised with implication. Sam gave her a grin, feeling heat rush to his cheeks.

"And exactly why am  _I_  considered the pervert in this relationship?" he questioned.

"Because you  _are_ , darling," Tracee said, matching his grin. "I just encourage it." Sam shook his head, laughing a bit before she pressed her lips to his. They kissed slowly for a time before she eventually reared back. " _Hm_ …" Her forehead touched his. "Still hurts a little."

"Okay, I'll go now," Sam told her, squeezing her thigh. Tracee nodded, and then slid off his lap so he could stand. "There's a convenience store about fifteen minutes away. "Shouldn't take me long."

"You're not taking the Impala?" she questioned.

"No, walking helps me think," he stated, heading towards the front door. "I might have some really good ideas by the time I get back."

" _Oh_ , okay, be careful," Tracee bid him farewell.

"You, too."

After responding, Sam walked out, closing the door behind him. Once he was outside, he found himself chuckling again. God, Tracee was something else. Sam bit his lower lip as he began the trek to the convenience store. Dean had driven pretty fast earlier, but he was pretty sure the little corner store was a twenty-four hour business. Okay, so brainstorming… He was in full agreement about this being a weird job. And having Tracee admitting that something had been off only cemented the fact.

Judging from what he already knew about vampires, the background just seemed like a variation. This nest seemed to be a contrast from the last nest they had encountered. One, they hadn't been so bold in their actions. Dad had been able to track them down because of what they had done to his friend. These vampires were probably being more careful. There hadn't been any news of missing people or bodies found with bites all over them, so that had been a variation. Two, like Tracee had said, the vampires killed, that they knew of, had jobs. The thought itself was befuddling. What vampire would willingly get a job? It's not like they needed money to survive.

Sam suddenly heard a faint noise, like a twig breaking. Not halting his walk, his eyes scanned the surrounding area. It was too dark to make anything out on this stretch of road. Street lights were a little ways off, too. Frowning, he scratched at his neck. He turned his head as his nails moved up and down. Even with a wider range, he couldn't see anything. Sighing to himself, he continued on, but kept his ears strained for more sounds. He hadn't had to wait longer. Another sound came, but closer than before. This time he stopped and sharply turned around. Still nothing. But now he couldn't shake the feeling that he was being followed.

Just as he was about to turn around, he felt a heavy weight on his back. Immediately, he tensed, twisting his body to get his attacker off. He managed a sharp right hook, which knocked the man down. He heard footsteps approach behind him, and immediately turned to punch the second man. His fist hit hard, causing the man to stumble back. Sam clenched his jaw, waiting for him to try attacking again. Because of that, he didn't notice the other recover quicker than he should have. Consequently, he was knocked over the head with a heavy object. Falling to his knees, his mind reeled.

The world faded to black before he completely fell over.

 

0-0

 

It had been an hour since Sam had left. It had been twenty minutes since Dean had come back to the motel, along with Gordon. While, they had discussed strategy about the location of the nest, Tracee had been pacing. Her headache had faded already, so now she was just worried. Why was it taking so long for him to come back? Fifteen minutes, he had told her. It should have only taken him thirty minutes to get back, and yet it had been double the time already. "… half… What do you think, Trace? Split into two teams?" Dean's voice broke through her thoughts, causing her to halt her pacing.

Turning, Tracee eyed the two men that were staring expectedly at her. She had tune them out quite a bit ago. "What?  _Shyeah_ , whatever," she agreed, waving off the question. She went back to pacing, folding her arms tight over her chest. "Why couldn't he have taken his phone with him?" she muttered to herself.

"Calm down, Trace," Dean told her. "He probably just took the scenic route—you know how he is." She had thought about that already. The man did love his walks and jogs. However, he wouldn't choose to take the scenic route, not knowing how long her headache would last. He would move quickly to get her the pain killers. And with his long strides, the walk would have taken less than thirty minutes. "Besides, Sammy can take care of himself."

"Oh my God, do I know  _that_ ," Tracee said, fondly thinking back to the first time she had seen him go for the kill. She might have let out a dreamy sigh because the older Winchester scowled and rolled his eyes. Gordon just looked confused. "But I  _also_  know what a damsel in distress he can be." Dean looked as though he might protest, but then he shut his mouth and nodded his head in agreement. "I'm just saying… ten minutes ago, I wasn't that worried. But  _now_  I am." Just then the door opened and Sam walked in. Tracee breathed out a sigh of relief. "Samuel…!" She walked over, wrapping her arms around his frame. Sam returned the hug, squeezing her tightly.

"Hey, I need to talk to you both for a minute," he said. Confused, Tracee reared back just as Dean asked Gordon to wait inside. The three of them left the motel room. Sam had taken the lead and led them past the Impala. He halted and turned to them. "I think we need to rethink this hunt."

"What are you talking about? Where's the  _Twizzlers_?" Dean questioned. "Trace said there'd be  _Twizzlers_."

"I didn't make it to the store," Sam stated. "I was… I was taken by the nest."

"You  _what_?!" Tracee exclaimed. Her hands immediately reached for him, checking his arms and neck for any sign of damage. There were no abrasions that she could see. "What happened? How did you get out?"

"You kill any? How many were there?" Dean continued the interrogation. Sam shook his head. "Well, they didn't just let you  _go_! What happened?"

"That's  _exactly_  what they did. Dropped me off a mile down the road from here," he said.

"Where are they?"

"I don't know. I was blindfolded."

"You've got to know something!"

"We went over that bridge outside of town, but, Dean, listen, maybe we shouldn't go after them," Sam said.

"Why  _not_?" Tracee asked, folding her arms. "They  _kidnapped_  you!"

"I know that, but… I don't think they're normal vampires," Sam insisted. "I don't think they're killing people." Both Tracee and Dean must has given skeptic looks before he huffed in frustration. "I know that sounds impossible—I didn't believe it at first either—but it make sense. I met their leader, Lenore, she said they're responsible for the cattle mutilations. They survive from drinking animal blood."

"And you  _believed_  them?" Dean asked, not losing his incredulity.

"There's not a scratch on me," Sam stated. His eyes looked Tracee's way. " _I'm_  the proof." It was real nice that he was trying to appeal to her logical senses, but admittedly, he was not, in fact, sufficient proof. She needed something a little bit more concrete than just a vampire's word. Hell, they could have easily deduced that their comrade had been staked and had realized that a Slayer had been the one to do it. Now, they were desperate to stay out of her sight or something like that. With their heightened senses, they could have realized that the person they had kidnapped belonged to a Slayer and turned him loose in fear of retaliation. Something in her expression must have given that away because he opened his mouth to further explain. "Think about it, Tracee. They've been here for  _months_. There's no missing people or other bodies. They had jobs. They were blending in. They just want to survive."

"Sam, they're  _vampires_ ," Dean protested. "Of course they're killing people! It's what they do!"

"Not  _this_  group," Sam asserted. "Not this time. Tracee said that she couldn't properly sense them, and I think it's because on a basic level, she doesn't perceive them as a threat. I mean, she couldn't even sense that that bartender was one of them." Dean sharply turned to her, eyes mildly accusing.

"That true?" he questioned.

"… The bartender's a vampire?" Tracee asked. She scratched at her neck. Sam pressed his lips together, slowly nodding his head. Well, damn. She hadn't been able to sense him. Sure, she had been drunk most of the time while at the bar, but she should not have ignored that slight buzzing she had when she had walked in. "I… felt  _something_ ," she admitted. "But it wasn't sharp like the last time."

"Exactly my point," Sam continued. "I think a part of your senses deals with how dangerous these creatures are. The less dangerous, the harder it is to sense them. If they're not killing people and are just drinking animal blood…"

"Then they barely show up as a blimp on my radar," Tracee finished. That had made sense. From what she had gathered, the Slayers before her hadn't usually gone after non-violent creatures. Maybe that had been the reason for it—the inability to properly sense them. If all this was true, then that vampire she had staked had only been defending himself. Well, this certainly complicated things. However, the nagging feeling had gone away. The mystery had been solved, after all. Tracee sighed heavily before turning her attention to Dean. "What do you think?"

"It's your call," he said.

"I want to know your opinion before I make that call," she stated. "This new information—what do you think of it?"

Dean shook his head. It took him several moments to open his mouth. "I gotta tell you, Trace," he began. "Every instinct is telling me screw this new information. They're vampires. They're evil. So they gotta be wasted. I mean, me and Sam—we were raised to hate anything supernatural. They're not like us. They're not human. They're all the same. Every instinct is telling me to find and exterminate every last one of them." His words weren't surprising—unsettling, but not surprising. Sam, black sheep that he had been, had broken away from that bigoted mindset, but Dean stuck to it like a good son, following his father's ways. "My world was black and white, and then I met you and it jacked everything up. And then your dad, forcing us to  _ascend_  made it worse. For the first time in my life, shades of grey started appearing. And now I know that there's a possibility that these vampires…  _could_  be different."

Tracee forced herself not to smile. It might have been hard for Dean to admit such things. Despite his gut telling him to keep the same mindset, he just couldn't ignore and remain ignorant when variations were revealed. Development and progress. Oh, how she loved it, especially when it came from someone she cared about. "Okay," she spoke out loud. "It looks like, for the most part, we're all in agreement. So we let them go. All the evidence confirms their lifestyle choice, so I'll let them be. Even though I'm sure one of them had to knock Samuel out in order to kidnap him."

"Calm down," Sam said, smile working its way across his face.

"Yeah, this is all well and good, but I doubt Gordon's gonna be as lenient," Dean told them, frowning. "They guy's borderline obsessed with killing vampires. You should have heard him talking after you guys left."

"We can just tell him Samuel killed them all," Tracee shrugged. "He doesn't know us, so he doesn't know what we're capable of. We can say he burned the bodies, too."

"So we're all cool with this?" Dean asked.

"It'd be great if I could get the chance to speak with this Bella after Bruce leaves, but yes, we're all cool," Tracee stated.

"It's Lenore," Sam corrected.

"Alright then," Dean said with a nod of his head. "Let me do most of the talking to Gordon, though. We've built  _rapport_." He turned, heading back to the motel room. Sam and Tracee followed close behind. They entered the room, only to discover Gordon had disappeared. "Crap!" He shifted his attention to his companions. "You think he heard us?"

"I hope he didn't hear everything," Tracee muttered.

"He probably went after them," Sam said. "We have to stop him."

"Yeah, I guess we do," Dean agreed. "Give me the keys—I'm driving."

Sam pointed over to a table. There weren't any keys. Only a cactus-shaped hook for the keys. "He snaked the keys!" he exclaimed. Dean groaned dramatically, practically stomping back out of the motel room. Having no other choice, Sam and Tracee followed him to the car. They all piled in, and Dean quickly began working on hotwiring the Impala. His complaints were loud and obnoxious. He practically cursed the ground that Gordon walked on. Tracee leaned against the back of the seat in between the two brothers, curiously watching the steps Dean took to start the car. Perhaps she would have to know such knowledge in the future. She hoped not, but she would rather have the knowledge and not need it than to need the knowledge and not have it.

"I can't believe this!" Dean grumbled hotly. The engine continued to stall. "Just fixed her up, too!" Eventually, the car started up, and he sighed in relief. He turned towards his brother. "So the bridge—is that all you got?" Tracee also turned her attention to the younger Winchester. He was staring down at the map in his lap.

"The bridge was four and a half minutes from their farm," Sam stated matter of fact.

"How do you know?" Dean questioned.

"I counted," he answered as though it was obvious. Tracee's eyebrows jumped in surprise. That was impressive. "Took a left out of the farm," Sam continued, moving his finger across the map. "Then turned right onto a dirt road. Followed that for two minutes slightly uphill. Then took another quick right, and we hit the bridge."

"Don't you just love it when he talks dirty?" Tracee sighed with a smile. Unable to help herself, she pressed a sweet kiss to his cheek. Sam chuckled while Dean's eye roll could be heard.

"I don't understand how you think that's hot," he muttered.

"I don't understand how you  _don't_ ," she retorted.

"Look, I'm not saying what he does isn't awesome, but I'm not trying to-"

"Suck his cock for it?" Tracee interrupted.

"… I'm not even going to respond to that—we're leaving now," Dean shook his head.

Giggling, Tracee sat back in her seat, and then strapped herself in. It was so fun teasing the older Winchester. She probably wouldn't ever stop. Dean pulled out of the motel's parking lot, and following his brother's instructions, they drove into the night. Eventually, they stopped, having spotted Gordon's vehicle already parked outside a decrepit house. He had gotten the head start. Wondering if they were too late, Tracee quickly got out of the car. She felt the two brothers behind her as she went inside the house. All too soon, the trio came across Gordon. A woman sat in a chair, weak, wheezing, and bleeding all over.

"Sam, Dean, Tracee—come on in," Gordon waved them over with his free hand. His other hand held his tool—a blade, no doubt soaked in the blood of the dead. Tracee's lips parted, mildly horrified by the sight. She could handle fighting and killing. However, this was straight up torture. This guy wasn't saving anyone by doing this, and yet… he actually seemed enthused about doing it. "I'm just poisoning Lenore here with some dead man's blood. She's going to tell us where her little friends are, aren't you?"

"Look, man-" Dean tried.

"Wanna help?" Gordon interrupted. He sliced into the vampire's arm, and the poison visibly spread through her veins. "I was just about to start in on the fingers."

"Sorry, I tend to draw the line at senseless torture," Tracee said, taking a step forward. "This is obviously gone too far, so drop the knife." Gordon narrowed his eyes, his calm façade wavering. Then he turned to glance back at the vampire. A sharp sigh left him, and then he tossed the bloodied blade onto the wooden table.

"You're right," he said. "I'm wasting my time here. This bitch will never talk." The man picked up another weapon. He unsheathed a larger blade, making a show of examining it. Tracee grit her teeth, irritated. Perhaps he hadn't realized that when she had told him to drop the knife, it hadn't meant to pick up another one. "Might as well put her out of her misery. I just sharpened it, so it's completely humane."

"Gordon, I'm letting her go," Sam stated moving forward.

"You're not doing a damn thing," he protested, pointing the tip at Sam's chest.

Immediately, Tracee went rigid. Dean, somehow sensing her anger spike, gripped her forearm, preventing her from physically lashing out. "Hey, hey, let's all just chill out, huh?" he tried to be the pacifying voice. "Let's talk before this goes too far south."

"What's there to talk about, Dean? It's like I told you—no shades of grey," Gordon replied. "They're vampires. We're hunters. We kill them before they kill us or anyone else. End of story."

"That's not all there is to  _this_  story," Tracee said through clenched teeth. "They're feeding off animal blood. They've turned their backs on their very nature and are acclimating to a different life. Their actions give them a second chance, and you're just hunting them down anyway. This group of vampires is  _innocent_. And I think you know that."

"There's no such thing as an innocent vampire," Gordon laughed out without mirth. "They're all the same. Evil. Bloodthirsty. My sister was innocent. Before she got turned. I killed her without remorse, without regret, because she wasn't my innocent sister anymore. She was one of them. So don't you dare tell me about innocent vampires. They don't exist. It's about as ridiculous as a vampire with a soul. They're not us. They're not human. Just because this nest decided to suddenly start making nice doesn't mean it can change what they are. And I can prove it."

Gordon quickly grabbed Sam by the wrist and cut into his arm with the large blade. The younger Winchester winced in pain as he was pulled in Gordon's direction. Tracee's mouth dropped open, eyes wide in disbelief at this man's audacity. With his fingers still wrapped around Sam's wrist and the closed fist at his throat, which still held the blade, Gordon forced her lover to stand over Lenore. "Let him go!" Dean growled out. " _Now_!"

"Relax," Gordon said. "If I wanted to kill him, he'd already be on the floor."

"Is that what you think?!" Tracee snarled. She kept her hard gaze on the enemy, but directed her next words to the older Winchester. "You gonna let this bitch keep punking us?" Dean sighed.

"I tried," he said, releasing her forearm. "Knock yourself out."

"Oh,  _now_ , you're in for it," Sam remarked.

She noticed that he relaxed his body, and she took it for what it was. An opportunity. Tracee leapt onto the table. She lifted her left leg in a hook kick. The sole of her shoe smashed into Gordon's face, sending him crashing towards the left wall. He hadn't had the time to react, let alone counter, so he had felt the full impact of the kick. Gordon crumbled to the floor, dropping his blade in the process. Tracee dropped down from the table, moving to grab the front of Gordon's shirt. The impact hadn't been enough to completely knock him out, but he looked well on his way. She lightly smacked at his cheek with her free hand to get him to focus.

"Look here, bitch," she began once his gaze settled. "Once you shake off this defeat and head back out into the world, I want you to let the hunter grapevine know that Tracee Noland protects the innocent and slays evil… no matter the species. And if any of them have a problem with that… Well, tell them to remember one thing: don't  _fuck_  with the Slayer and her Winchesters.  _Araso_ …?" Gordon stared up at her, lips pursed tightly together. " _Shyeah_ , I think you got it." With a hard punch to his face, Tracee rendered the man unconscious. She released her grip on his shirt and stood up to her full height.

"Wow… I think I love it when you talk dirty, too," Sam caught her attention, making her turn around to face him. While he held his bleeding arm, he stared at her in awe, smile showing those gorgeous dimples of his. He wore a look that Tracee had become quite fond of seeing. She bit her lower lip, trying not to grin too wide.

"Come on, guys, don't make it gross," Dean scoffed, successfully breaking their sizzling eye contact. Tracee cleared her throat, turning her gaze to the older brother. "Grab Lenore and let's get outta here. I think we're done."

0-0


	26. Grief & Acceptance

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't think readers understand how much fun I have writing this particular story. I have never managed to write chapters, especially long chapters, on a weekly basis. I should be focused on my other story, and yet I keep coming back to this one. So I'm guessing two to three more chapters this month for this one, and then I'll switch back to my Banshee story.

Sam felt his eyes narrow as he concentrated on jabbing at the ground, intending to dig a small hole. This knife sank into the ground in front of the headstone belonging to his mother, Mary Winchester. It had taken some convincing for Dean to drive to this particular cemetery. Even then, he had complained and griped the entire drive. Sam had thought his brother would come around once they arrived, but that hadn't been the case. Dean had managed to stay as far away as possible from their mother's grave. Sam clenched his jaw, finally satisfied with the small crater he had created. He placed the blade beside him, and then lowered himself further, sitting down with his legs folded.

Swallowing, he stared at the name of his mother for a moment. A frown tugged at his mouth as he reached into his shirt pocket. He pulled out his dad's dog tags. He squeezed the tags, memories of John flooding his mind. It had been weeks, and he had still felt the surge of guilt. That last argument still tasted sour. It would never be a good memory, and it would probably always haunt him. But no matter how many times he wished he could go back—say something else—Sam knew the sharpest words could never be taken back. His thumb roughly rubbed the tags before he lowered his hand to place them in the hole. "I think dad would have wanted you to have these," he whispered.

Sam slowly covered the tags, feeling the stinging of oncoming tears. He cleared his throat and rubbed at his eyes before the tears could well up. He sniffled lightly, patting at the ground. Here he was, at his mother's headstone, and he was thinking about his father. It was a bit of an insult, wasn't it? Sam breathed deeply, focusing on his mother's name again. His fingers lightly ran across the letters that formed her name. The last—and only—image he had of his mother had been beautiful, fierce, and protective. Sometimes, he still wondered what his life would have been like if she hadn't died. To experience the love of a mother, to actually remember and cherish it—he wished he could have had that chance.

A heavy sigh left him as he pulled his fingers away from the granite. No amount of wishing would change reality. His mom had died in the same year he had been born. Everything had changed in one night. Normal had been snatched away only after six months of living. And now his reality would never be normal. Sam had accepted that. It took a long time to feel comfortable in his own skin, but he had accepted this reality. It hadn't been all bad, after all. As emotionally distant as Dean was, Sam still had him. He had a sense of purpose. He had an amazing girlfriend. Honestly, with the things this reality threw his way, all things considered, he had been lucky so far.

Pursing his lips, his eyes glanced to his right. Tracee sat under a large tree on a bench made of wood and metal. With her legs crossed and her hands holding a single white lily, she stared at him from a distance. She had wanted to give him time and space, and so she had stayed back, but always ready for moral support. A silent chuckle escaped his lips. He really did have an amazing girlfriend. She seemed to always know what was needed. Sam completely shifted his gaze to Tracee, and then tilted his head, gesturing her over.

She immediately stood from the bench and began to make her way over in her white wedge sandals. It was rare to see her in lighter attire. Actually, it had been the first time he had seen her in an actual dress. The location was warmer than most of the places they had been to, so the weather allowed her to wear different clothes—other than jeans. A yellow sundress, which flared out just above her knees and tied around her neck, showcased her shoulders, arms, and legs. He loved seeing her skin like this. She was radiant. Sam smiled, watching as she came to a stop beside him. Tracee then lowered herself to sit down. She leaned against him, legs curled around her. Once comfortable, she placed the lily down in front of the headstone, silently paying respects.

"How are you doing?" Tracee questioned, after a few moments of silence.

"I'm… I'm okay," Sam told her. She hummed thoughtfully, and then her left hand found his right one. Their fingers clasped together, and she gave him a gentle squeeze. Sam tilted his head, resting it against hers. He sighed softly. "You know, coming here… was kinda a spur of the moment thing." He felt her nod. "I suddenly thought maybe it was a good idea to… to bring dad to her. It's probably really selfish to make this side trip when we should be focusing on other things."

"No, darling, it's not selfish at all," Tracee said. "It's thoughtful. And you're thinking about family, so it's a valid side trip. Despite Dean's bellyaching."

"Still…" Sam sighed lightly. "… Being here, thinking about family, it makes me wonder if you're thinking of yours." He could feel her shoulder tense. "I mean, here we are at my mom's headstone, and I haven't asked how you were. I don't know, maybe we could go to Washington to visit your parents?"

"No. That's not necessary," she quickly replied. Sam, knitting his brow, lifted his head away from hers. He turned to stare at her, mildly confused by the reaction. Tracee kept her gaze focused on the headstone. With her free hand, she reached up to scratch the right side of her neck. Then with startling clarity, he realized that Tracee never talked about her real parents. She had mentioned her dad once or twice, but her mom hadn't been brought up. Whenever she said something about her childhood, it had always been times she had with her  _father_. Sam had never stopped to think about the reason for that.

"Tracee," he whispered, squeezing her hand. "Talk to me. Why don't you want to visit your parents?"

After a beat of silence, she finally turned to look his way. She dropped her hand from her neck, and then sighed. "When I was eighteen, out of the blue, my father offered to take me to Washington. I declined. See, it had been almost eight years since I had been adopted. In those eight years, I grew to love my father. By eighteen, he was my parent. So when he asked me to go see my real parents… I froze, blurted out no, and then locked myself in my room for the rest of the day. We didn't talk about it after that, and he never offered again. It was embarrassing. Because in those eight years, I had forgotten what my parents looked like. Even know, my mind can't remember their faces. I loved them for almost a decade, but I forgot them so easily. So no… I don't want to go to them and make it all concrete that they have a bad child."

He had never thought Tracee would hold on to something like that. He had been dealing and complaining, and talking about dad's death, and she had only listened. With all this stuff happening, of course she would be reminded of her own parents. And with her confession, it probably brought up feelings of guilt within her. He should have been listening, too. Sam squeezed her hand. "Tracee," he began. She tilted her head down, dropping her gaze as well. "Hey," he interrupted before words of protest could come from her parted lips. "I know how much you value family. Maybe their faces are gone, but that doesn't mean you've forgotten them completely. I mean, your dad knew seventy-three languages. And you know ten. I'm sure you've picked up something from your mom, too."

"… She… She did love her some rap music," Tracee admitted. "And she was actually really good at it."

"Not your dad?" Sam questioned in surprise.

"Oh  _no_ …!" she laughed out as though the thought had been absurd. "He was a country boy." She laughed again, and Sam watched her, fascinated. It was good to hear after her despondent outward appearance just a few seconds ago. "I actually… can remember vividly how he would change the radio station to country and belt out lyrics. With the car windows rolled down. And where we lived, it wasn't exactly common for a black man to be doing that. My mom would get so annoyed, but she would end up laughing, too. We'd all have a laugh."

"So there you go," Sam said. "You keep them with you. You don't have to remember their faces if you remember  _them_. You're not a bad child, Tracee." She pressed her lips together, thoughtful expression on her face. Sam gave her hand another squeeze, and then shifted his line of sight back to his mother's name. "Not like me." Tracee made an inquisitive noise. "I'm really the bad child."

"Samuel, your dad-"

"It's not about dad," he stated. "It's mom." His jaw clenched as he stared at the name. "I would never tell Dean this. He can't know, but,  _um_ …" Tracee leaned against him. Her silent urgings were enough for his mouth to open again. Sam turned to look her way. He could always say things he wouldn't normally admit when it came to her. This big thing would be no different. Still, he wondered if she would judge him. "Truth is… I-"

"HEY!"

The interruption had come from many yards away. Dean had successfully—obnoxiously—stopped Sam from continuing his admission. Mildly annoyed, he turned his head to where his brother's voice had come from. Standing across the cemetery, Dean almost frantically waved them over. Sam couldn't see the expression, but judging from the excited waving, there was probably a giant grin on his face. Sighing lightly, Sam moved to stand up. "I guess we better go see what the excitement's about," Tracee mumbled. "Though I can't see why he'd be so excited in a graveyard."

"Yeah, no kidding," Sam muttered as he helped his girlfriend to her feet. She swiped at her dress, patting away any dirt or grass that might have clung to the fabric. Then hand in hand, they headed over to where Dean had been spotted. As they approached, Sam could see that his brother was talking to a man in a black suite. A card was given by the man before he walked off. Dean turned towards then, waving the card about.

"Angela Mason," he began. "She was a student at the local college. Her funeral was three days ago." He gestured around him, causing Sam to examine their surroundings. He raised an eyebrow, wondering why that information was important. Dean must have noticed because he scoffed and gestured again in a more forceful way. "Are you kidding me? Look at her grave! Everything's dead around it in a perfect circle. You don't think that's a little weird?"

"Maybe the groundskeeper got a little agro with the pesticide," Sam replied nonchalantly.

"No, I asked him, I asked him," Dean insisted. "No pesticide, no chemicals—nobody can explain it."

"Okay, so what are you thinking?"

"I don't know—unholy ground, maybe?"

"Unholy…?" Tracee repeated. "Really? You found a hunt?" She sighed heavily and rolled her eyes. Honestly, Sam felt the same. Here? Of all places, his brother had managed to stumble across a potential hunt. He shook his head, quite annoyed. "Great— _more_  W.S. Finally, we come to a warm place, I get to wear cute clothes, and you find something that might need slaying. Does this look like a slaying outfit, Dean?"

"Calm down, Trace," he told her. "I'm pretty sure you can do it anyway." Tracee merely clicked her tongue. "If something evil happened there, it could easily poison the ground. It could be the sign of a demonic presence.  _Or_ this Angela girl's spirit if it's powerful enough. Can you sense anything?"

"No, I don't sense anything," Tracee replied with a shrug of her shoulders. "But-"

"But  _nothing_ ," Sam cut in. "This is not a hunt. We're not hunting."

"Seriously, Sammy? Something weird is clearly going on around here. We find weird shit, and we find out what it is," Dean said. "It's what we do." Technically, that was true, but… "This could be a hunt, and it's up to us to figure it out."

"Are you sure this is about a hunt? And not something else?"

His questions were met by a disbelieving look from Dean and an exasperated "Oh my God…!" from Tracee. She sharply turned. "I need to talk to you  _now_ , Sam." His girlfriend walked away from the strange grave, taking Sam with her. Confused, he stumbled after her, wondering how he had gotten into trouble. Once they were far enough away, and Dean had begun to walk towards the Impala, Tracee stopped, facing Sam and snatching her hand away. A sound of protest almost escaped his throat, but he clamped his mouth shut before it could. His girlfriend glared up at him, folding her arms over her chest. "I know what you were about to do, and you need to stop right now."

"What? I wasn't-" Sam began to protest, but Tracee tilted her head to the side and arched a knowing brow. He sighed heavily. "Fine, I was, but I'm right! This is clearly just a distraction! I mean, he wouldn't go within a hundred yards of mom's grave. It's not a hunt, it's just another thing to do so he won't think about mom  _or_  dad. If he keeps bottling things up, he's just gonna implode! You were the one that told me it's never good to keep feelings of grief to yourself. I'm just trying to  _help_  him."

"I understand that, Samuel… Your intentions are good, but the way you go about it just causes him to shut down," Tracee stated. "You know he's not as opened to discussing  _feelings_  as you are. He needs time. When Dean's ready to talk, he will." Sam shook his head and dropped his line of sight to the ground. Tracee grabbed his hand, causing him to look back up. "He  _will_ ," she insisted. "But as long as you keep trying to force and  _manipulate_  him into talking, the more he will try to distance and distract himself. Until eventually, this malicious cycle you two have explodes in violence!"

"What am I supposed to do in the meantime? I can't just watch him distract himself job after job," Sam said. "Look, as long as he feels better or gets something out, I'm fine with him violence."

"Well,  _I'm_  not. I'm not fine with him yelling at you. I definitely wouldn't be fine with him  _hitting_  you," Tracee nearly growled. "And you shouldn't be  _either_!" Sam frowned, turning his eyes away. "I know you love your brother, and I know you want to help him. Right now, the only way you can is to  _not_  add to his stress. Ease his stress by  _supporting_  him. If he says he found a case, don't just shoot down the idea. Go along with it. If it turns out to be nothing, maybe then it'd be okay to get to the root issue, but for right now, he needs you to  _just_  be with him."

"Yeah… fine," Sam said. She gave him another look. "I said fine. I will. Let's go be supportive. By  _not_  talking."

"I know that's terribly hard for you, but in the end, it's going to be fine. You two will get through this, maybe not at the same time, but you will," Tracee said. She took a step forward, pressing her forehead against his chest. Her arms wrapped around him, and after a beat, Sam returned the embrace. He shut his eyes and relaxed. He sighed in near sync with her, and then slid his palm up and down her back. She groaned lightly, squeezing just a bit harder. He enjoyed that. "Maybe… after you two are okay, if you want, maybe we can… see my parents? After thinking about it… Maybe I do need a little bit more closure."

Sam reared back just enough to look her in the eye. "I'd like that," he told her. She smiled, and he couldn't resist leaning down and kissing her. His hands came up to cup her cheeks. Thumbs caressing her skin, he repeatedly kissed her. She had put on her cherry chapstick. He really liked the feel and smell of it. "Did I tell you how cute are you today?" Sam asked, letting his hands fall to her shoulders. Tracee bit her lower lip and nodded her head. "Then it bears repeating." She chuckled.

"Nice try, Samuel, but I like this dress. So I'm not going to let you rip it off," she said.

" _Heh_ , I wasn't even thinking about that… until now." Tracee laugh's lit up her face. "So you're not mad at me?"

"No," she answered, sounding confused. "No, it was just a disagreement. Different opinions. We're okay." Tracee breathed deeply, smiling again. "Let's go help Dean."

"Okay, let's help Dean." Sam agreed.

The two of them walked towards the car, which his brother leaned against him his arms folded and wearing a petulant frown. Apparently, he hadn't cared for the amount of time their talk had taken. "Finally…!" Dean blurted as they came to a stop at the passenger side. Ignoring him for a moment, Sam opened the back door for Tracee. "The girl's dad works in town. He's the professor at the school. I say we start there."

"Great idea, let's go," Sam said. His brother narrowed his eyes, seemingly suspicious of the compliment. Honestly, he had forced himself to say it instead of just huffing in agreement. Eventually, Dean shrugged, and then moved to get in the car. Tracee lightly patted Sam's arm, getting his attention. She smiled softly, which he returned, and then climbed in the backseat. Internally, he sighed though. After closing the back door, he opened his own door and got in. Not talking—it shouldn't be a big deal, but… he was still worried. Sam would let this 'job' run its course. If they didn't find anything supernatural, then it would be justification as far as he was concerned. So he would grin and bear with it for now.

Mostly driving in silence, the three made it to the local college in a relatively short amount of time. It took a few minutes of asking around, but they eventually came across the professor's office. Dean was the one to knock on the door. Within a few moments, a man opened the door, much older than any of them. "Dr. Mason…?" Dean asked. The older man slowly nodded his head, eyes darted between each of them.

"I'm Sam. This is Dean and Tracee," Sam introduced them all. "We were friends of Angela. We… We wanted to offer our condolences."

"… Please come in," the professor acknowledged, and the opened the door wider and stepped to the side. Dean went in first, followed by Tracee, and then Sam. The older man shut the door behind them. "You know it's almost weird that you chose to come by now. I was just looking at old photos," he stated. Tracee sat down in one of the chairs. Sam had chosen to remain standing at her side while Dean had immediately gone over to the bookcase. The professor sat in the chair besides Tracee, reaching for an album on his desk. He opened it to a random page. Both sides had pictures of Angela and her father.

"She was beautiful," Sam remarked, staring down at the various pictures.

"Yes, she was," Dr. Mason agreed, tight smile forming on his face.

"This is an unusual book," Dean said from his place by the bookshelf. He showed the cover of the book in his hands.

"Oh, it's ancient Greek," the man stated. "I teach a course."

"Anyway… It's a shame that she had to go like that," Tracee murmured as Dean set the book down. "I am truly sorry for your loss."

"Angie was only… a mile away from home when…" the professor didn't seem able to finish his words. Sam knew the feeling all too well. But this man had experienced the loss only a couple of days ago. The hurt and pain was still fresh, and honestly, he felt that maybe they shouldn't have come so soon afterwards.

"It must be hard…" Dean approached them. "Losing someone like that, I mean. Sometimes, it's like they're still around. Almost like you can still sense their presence." Sam found it hard not to roll his eyes at his brother's obvious attempt. "You ever feel anything like that?"

"I do, as a matter of fact," Dr. Mason replied, oblivious to the underlying intent in the question. Dean, confident that he had gotten the answer he had wanted, raised smug eyebrows. Sam did not stop the eye roll this time.

"That's perfectly normal, Dr. Mason," he stated, eyeing his brother all the while. Dean pursed his lips. "Especially with what you're going through."

"You know I still phone her," the man said quietly. "And the phone's ringing before I remember that,  _uh_ …" Again, he seemed at a loss for words. "Family's everything, you know…? Angie was the most important thing in my life. And now I'm just lost without her." This poor man. Clearly, he was broken. They wouldn't get anything out of him, not for this  _maybe_  case. Not right now. He hadn't had time to properly grieve yet. How he had possibly come to work so soon in the first place was a wonder. Sam pointedly looked at his brother, hoping to convey that this had been a dead-end, but Dean stubbornly looked away from him.

"Sir, it may not mean much to you now, but you won't be lost forever," Tracee said. The professor looked her way, tears in his eyes. "Your daughter was bright and caring, and I'm sure she wouldn't want you to be lost like this." The man squeezed his eyes shut, giving jerky nods. "With the way she was… I doubt you're alone in your loss. Is there… anyone else that could feel the same you do? Close friends or associates?"

"Yes…" Dr. Mason sniffled. "She had a roommate… and a boyfriend, Matt. There's also Neal. He's my TA, but they were pretty close friends growing up. I haven't had the… strength to see them since the funeral. Too big of a reminder, I guess..."

"Well, when you're ready, just know that you weren't the only one to lose her. I'm sure she meant a great deal to a lot of people," Tracee continued.

"Th-Thank you," Dr. Mason replied, becoming choked up. Sam noticed Tracee's shoulders tense in response. "It hurts… but thank you." His girlfriend nodded her head, and then moved to stand.

"Again, we are sorry," she said. "And we hope you get through this as quickly as you can. At your own pace."

"Thank you," the man repeated, standing up as well. He reached to shake her hand. "You are a good friend. I-I don't remember you, though. I'm sorry."

"Middle school," Tracee supplied, returning the handshake. "I moved away after that, so I doubt you would. Take care of yourself, doctor."

"You as well."

After saying their goodbyes, the three left Dr. Mason's office. There wasn't much exchanged between the three of them until they found a motel to stay the night. Dean had immediately sought out their dad's journal and began skimming through it. Tracee had claimed one of the beds, closest to the bathroom. Right now, she was laying on her stomach and looking through a local magazine with her legs swaying in the air. Dean was still reading through dad's journal, pacing back and forth. And Sam, sitting on the edge of the bed Tracee had claimed, had forced himself to stay quiet. This was quickly turning into  _not_  a job. The more time that passed, the more it seemed like it. But he was going to keep his mouth shut until the end.

"I'm telling you, man, something is going on here," Dean blurted out, sounding as though he was trying to convince himself as well. "We just haven't found it yet."

"Dean, so far you've got a patch of dead grass and  _nothing_ ," Sam retorted.

"Well,  _something_  turned that grave into unholy ground," his brother said, halted and focused narrowed eyes on him.

"There's no reason for it to be unholy ground. Angela Mason was a nice girl who died in a car crash," Sam stated. "That's not exactly vengeful-spirit material. Besides, Tracee hasn't sensed anything." Said person pointedly cleared her throat. Not looking up from the words of the magazine, her intent was clear.  _Supporting not protesting_. Clenching his jaw, Sam returned his attention to his brother. " _But_ … This is only the start, so let's not freak out just yet. We'll find something." Dean reared back, seemingly taken aback by the words of encouragement. That… spoke volumes, but Sam decided not to think about it right now. "What's our next move?"

"Well…" Dean began, and then shrugged. "Tracee did a good job getting that guy to tell us this girl's close friends, so tomorrow we'll talk to them. See if they know anything besides the nice girl thing. Maybe daddy doesn't know everything there was to know about his little angel, huh? Maybe she got up to all kinds of things." It took a lot for Sam not to object. It wasn't necessary to speak ill of the dead like that. But he grinned and nodded in agreement for the sake of support. "Alright then. For now, let's get something to eat. Trace, tell me you found some place good that delivers. No pizza."

" _Uh_ , I actually made an effort to look good today. I'm not wasting this effort in a motel room on delivery. We're going  _out_  to eat," Tracee stated. "I already found a nice looking restaurant." Sam felt himself smiling, not minding at all, while his brother groaned dramatically.

 

0-0

 

Stifling a yawn, Dean slowly made his way to the motel room. He should have grabbed a coffee on the way back or something. Last night, he couldn't get to sleep after the restaurant. He had tried, but his body had felt too restless. So he had slipped out of bed, careful not to wake Sam and Tracee, and had left after leaving a note. Dean had gone to a nearby bar, but that hadn't helped. In the end, he had decided to pick the job back up and investigate further. Now, he was just tired. Still, he had found something, and couldn't wait to tell those two about it. Sam hadn't mouthed off much as he would, but Dean could still tell that his brother had wanted to.

Sam hadn't been fooling anyone with his Bitchface in effect, but whatever Tracee had told him earlier must have done the trick because he hadn't voice many complaints about this particular case. Dean was grateful to the tiny tank. He did not need his brother getting all 'we should talk,' and Sam had most definitely been in the mood for talking ever since they had arrived in this town. Snorting a bit, opened the door to the motel room. It was unlocked, so the two of them must be up already. Tracee had this weird thing with locking stuff. Only recently, she had accepted why the Impala needed to be unlocked at all times.

Dean walked further into the motel room towards the bed. He turned his head, thinking he would catch one of them still in bed since the bathroom door had been closed. But, he caught the both of them on top of the bed. Sam, sitting with his back against the wall and hands seemingly tied behind his back, was blindfolded with one of Tracee's headscarves. With a fistful of Sam's hair, she straddled him and seemed to be nipping and licking at his throat. A strained groan escaped his brother's mouth as Tracee's grip on his hair visibly increased. They were both in a change of clothes already. Sam in a red shirt and jeans. Tracee wore another dress—baby blue this time.

"Really?" Dean nearly shouted.

"Dean…?!" Sam gasped as Tracee reared back from his throat.

"Oh,  _hey,_ you're back." She, completely, unashamed, remained on top of his brother even as Sam wiggled in place below her. Cheeks turning pink because he had been caught in a compromising position, Sam bowed his head. "Calm down, darling." Dean shook his head as he made his way to his own bed. "Where were you? Your note didn't say anything about staying out all night." Tracee removed the blindfold from around Sam's head. "Did you pick up a sexy chick?"

"I'm a  _professional_!"

"Right, and I'm the queen of England," Tracee replied, drily. She maneuvered her hands behind Sam's back to unbind his wrists. They were so gross.

"No, really, I was working the case," Dean insisted. "Unlike you two. What the hell were you doing?"

"Just learning each other's preferences," Tracee answered with a shrug. "So far, your brother likes hair pulling, being tied up, biting, and just now, we were amplifying his other senses by blindfolding to see if-"

"Why did I ask? Why did I even ask?" Dean grumbled to himself, watching his brother rub one of his wrists. Sam had the decency to look sheepish. Tracee only giggled. "While you two were being gross, I found out a few things. Angela's boyfriend died last night. He slit his own throat." His words caused the two of them to actually pay attention. "Apparently, he was seeing Angela everywhere before he died."

"Where'd you hear this?" Tracee questioned. She tried to crawl off Sam's lap, but he stopped her by grabbing her forearms and quickly shook his head. Chuckling in realization, she remained put. Dean rolled his eyes. "Actually, that's not important. Did you already search his apartment?"

"I just came from there. A pile of dead plants just like the cemetery," he answered, yanking his shoes off. "Hell, a dead goldfish, too. And I got the information from the girl's roommate, who's all kinds of torn up by the way. I'm still not getting that powerful angry-spirit vibe, though. I have been reading this." Dean pulled the book he had snagged from Angela's place. He held up the pink diary for them both to see.

"You stole the girl's diary?" Sam asked incredulous.

"Yeah, Sam, I did," Dean replied, uncaringly. As if this little thing had been the worst they had ever stolen. "And if anything, the girl was  _too_  nice."

"So… You already talked to the roommate, and the boyfriend's dead," Tracee muttered. "What do we do now?"

"Keep digging—talk to more of her friends."

"You get any names?" Sam asked. "Is that Neal guy in there?"

"Are you kidding? I have her bestest friend in the whole wide world," Dean stated. He then tossed the book towards them. Tracee snatched the diary out of the air like it was child's play. She immediately opened it and began rifling through the pages. "We'll head out after I get a shower and a few hours of sleep." Tracee gave an affirmative while Sam nodded his head and began reading as well.

Hours later, they had arrived at a house of a person by the name of Neal. His name had been in various entries in the diary, according to Sam and Tracee, so the dad had been right about him being closed to the recently deceased. Dean knocked on the door, and within moments, a dark-haired man opened the door. Plastering on a fake smile, Dean introduced the three of them as grief counselors. Neal scrunched his face up in confusion. "I didn't realize the college employed grief counselors," he said.

"Oh yeah…!" Dean faked enthusiasm. "Yeah, you talk, we listen. And maybe throw in a little therapeutic collage—whatever jumpstarts the healing." A nudge at his back from Tracee told him that he had gone a little too far.

"Well… I think I'm okay, thanks," Neal replied, eyes still narrowed like he was skeptic of the whole thing. Huh. Maybe he had gone too far? Neal turned to go back in his house. Dean became slightly distracted by a fly buzzing by.

"Well, you heard what happened to Matt Harrison, right?" Sam questioned. Neal nodded, confirming that he had heard. The entire campus probably heard by now. "We just wanted to make sure  _you_  were okay. Grief can make people do  _crazy_  things."

"We heard you were close with Angelica," Tracee said.

"Angela," Sam corrected.

" _Shyeah_ ," she continued, unaffected by the correction. "We just wouldn't want anything tragic to happen again."

"Look, I'm sorry about what happened to him. I am," Neal said. "But if Matt killed himself, it wasn't cuz of grief."

"No? Then why?" Dean questioned.

"It was guilt," he answered. And for some reason, it had stabbed at Dean's chest. He swallowed hard, attempting to push down the pressure, but it remained. "Angie's death was Matt's fault and he knew it." The pressure increased, and Dean tried hard to continue listening to the conversation, but images of his father entered his mind and made it hard to focus. He curled his fingers into a fist, nails digging into his palm. The slight pain was enough to snap him back to reality, and he could breathe again. "… loved that guy, but the night of the accident, she walked in on him with another girl. She was really torn up. That's why she crashed the car."

" _Hm_ ," Tracee crossed her arms. "Perhaps this was his just rewards then."

"…  _Um_ , okay?" Neal pursed his lips for a moment, obviously picking up on the frosty tone from the tiny tank. Thinking back, it was obviously she felt a certain way about adultery. "I've gotta get ready for work, so thanks for the concern, but seriously, I'll be okay." He almost hurriedly went back inside his house and shut the door behind him.

Dean turned to Sam and Tracee, the latter still sporting an annoyed frown. He gestured for the three of them to leave, and so they headed away from the house, moving down the porch's steps. It wasn't until the car came into view that Dean started talking. "Well, my vengeful-spirit theory is starting to make a little more sense," he commented. "I mean, hell hath no fury…"

"Like a woman scorned," Tracee finished, frown deepening. She shoved her hands into her jean jacket. Yeah, she felt some type of way. "So she killed her cheating boyfriend, did she? Wonder if she moved on then." Sam opened the back door for her and she climbed inside.

"Maybe," Dean said, opening the driver side door to his car. "But there's one way to be sure." Sam took his position in the passenger seat, looking at him curiously. "We burn the bones, of course."

"B-Burn the bones?" he repeated, shocked. He gave a mirthless chuckle. "Are you  _high_? There's not going to be any bones, Dean. Angela died last week. There's gonna be a ripe, rotting body in the coffin."

"Since when are you afraid to get dirty, huh?" Dean asked. From the back, he heard Tracee suck in a breath. "Shut up, Trace!" he interrupted before she could say anything. The tiny tank visibly deflated, but a grin stayed on face as she buckled up. Man, he had to stop walking into those. Sam never said anything, but Tracee would always be ready for a comeback. Somehow, she made it not as funny anymore. The fact that she was  _boinking_  his brother made it not funny anymore. Dean turned the key in the ignition, starting up the Impala. "We burn the body to make sure, no questions."

"Yes, sir!" Tracee chirped as she saluted. "Can we find some place to eat, though? I'm starving."

"I saw an all you can eat buffet on the way here," Sam suggested. "Maybe they're still serving breakfast?"

"I could go for a cup of joe," Dean agreed. "Okay, let's go."

Eventually, night had come, and Dean found himself panting heavily over a coffin. Along with his brother, he had worked nonstop to reach six feet. Just enough to get the lid open. Dean tossed his shovel above the hole that was dug, and then looked up at Tracee. She was standing over the large hole, peering down. "You know, this could have gone a lot faster if you had helped,  _Slayer_ ," he pointed out. Tracee merely held out a water bottle too him. Rolling his eyes, Dean snatched the bottle from her hand. "Thanks, smartass."

"It's not my fault you keep catching me on days I feel like being cute, Dean," Tracee told him as she handed another bottled water to Sam. His brother wiped the sweat from his forehead as he took the bottle with an appreciative smile. "Besides, there's only two shovels." Dean scoffed, and then began chugging the water. Once done, he handed the empty bottle back to the tiny tank, and she took it without complaint. He lowered himself, feeling for the latch. He found and pried it open. Should be easy to open the thing now.

"Ladies first," Dean said, turning towards his brother. Sam scoffed, but moved to open the casket like a good little brother. Tracee walked around the hole so that she could get a good look, too. The casket's lid was lifted, revealing… nothing. The box was empty. "They buried the body four days ago," Dean said out loud, gesturing towards the empty casket.

"I don't get it," Sam murmured.

"There's something there," Tracee mentioned. "The cloth is torn up."

"Yeah, and there's some kind of symbols carved in," Sam said, aiming his light where Tracee had pointed out. Beyond the cloth, there were indeed symbols. One in particular stood out because Dean had seen it before. At the very beginning. He internally scoffed. Looks like it should have been daddy they had needed to look into thoroughly.

"Hey, Trace… How's your ancient Greek?"

"Nonexistent. Why?"

"Well, it looks like we need to take a little trip to the library."

 

0-0

 

Tracee watched Dean bang on the professor's door harder than necessary. She winced at the volume, and the intent behind it. He had been tense ever since they had come from the local library. She did not understand  _why_ , though. His aggressive reaction wasn't making sense. They had gotten what they had needed, which ultimately meant they had another step in the case. They were closer to solving it. So frustration had nothing to do with it. He had already snapped at both of them. Yes, they had been little snipes, but it had been more than just sass. Something had him bent out of shape.

Ignoring Sam's 'take it easy' Dean banged on the door again. Finally, the door opened, revealing Dr. Mason in a plaid house robe. He looked surprised to see them… pleasantly so. "Tracee," he greeted, slight eye crinkle. Blinking, she returned the greeting with a slight nod. Admittedly, she hadn't expected to be remembered by name. "Angie's friends, right? It's good to see you again."

"You as well, doctor," Tracee replied. "If you wouldn't mind-"

"We need to talk!" Dean cut in. His aggressiveness seemed to extend to strangers. Fun times. Tracee nervously reached up to scratch her neck as the professor invited them in. This felt… wrong somehow. Dr. Mason, at the moment, was their primary suspect, but… This didn't seem like a man desperate enough. Heart-broken, yes, but resorting to magic? Getting desperate enough to  _believe_? Dr. Mason didn't seem the type. And there was something else, but… she didn't know what. For now, she followed Dean inside the house, along with Sam. The professor shut the door behind them. "You teach ancient Greek," Dean began, turning sharply to face the older man before they could make it to the living room. Apparently, Dean did not care for civility at this point. "Tell me-" He pulled the folded piece of paper from his pocket. "-What are these?"

The professor took the paper from Dean, examining the symbols. His brow furrowed as his eyes darted across the page. "I don't understand," Dr. Mason said, looking back towards Dean. Tracee and Sam stood off to the side. The younger Winchester shifted uneasily at her side. So he felt it as well? For a primary suspect, the professor wasn't acting like it. The symbols should have, at least, garnered recognition. After all, those particular symbols had been copied from the inside of his daughter's casket. Just a spark would have been enough, but the older man's expression remained befuddled. "Does this have something to do with Angela?"

"It does," Dean stated. "Please, just humor me."

"… They're part of an ancient Greek divination ritual—these particular symbols were used for necromancy," Dr. Mason stated, confirming their theory. Someone had brought back the dead. And since the good doctor had been the only one that would know of such a ritual, he had been designated as the primary suspect. Dean hummed in agreement, but it was sarcastic.

"Yeah, before we came over here, we stopped by the library and did a little homework ourselves," he explained, voice taking on a hard edge. "Apparently, they use rituals like this one for communicating with the dead. Even bring corpses back to life—full on zombie action."

"Yeah, I mean, according to the legends," Dr. Mason agreed with a shrug. His eyes still showed confusion. Oh no. "Now what's this about?"

"Actually, we might be mistaken-"

"I think you know," Dean interrupted Tracee, snatching the paper from the professor's hand. He ignored her and his brother's attempt at getting his attention. "Look, I get it, okay? There are people that I would give anything to see again, but what gives you the right?" Again, Sam tried to get his attention, but again, he was ignored. "What's dead should stay dead!" The professor seemed even more confused by the way the conversation had gone. He stammered out a puzzled, and slightly angered, 'what?' but Dean just kept talking, not noticing at all. "What you brought back isn't even your daughter anymore!"

"Stop it!" Sam barked, but Dean either hadn't heard or hadn't cared.

"These things are vicious, they're violent! They're so nasty that they rot the ground around them! I mean, come on! Haven't you seen  _Pet Cemetery_?!"

"You're insane," Dr. Mason told him. He walked by Dean in order to pick up his house phone. The older Winchester demanded to know where the zombie was. "Get out of my house!"

"I know you're hiding her somewhere!" Dean yanked the phone from the man's hand, and then slammed it down on its receiver. "Where is she?!"

"Dean, stop! That's enough!" Sam grabbed his brother by the arm, forcing him to look elsewhere. "Look! Beautiful,  _living_  plants!" Tracee also looked towards the living room, seeing the exact same thing. Further indication that Dr. Mason had no idea what Dean had been accusing him of. There was nothing dead in this house. "We're leaving."

"I'm calling the police," the professor's voice cracked just a bit. Dean had scared him. Hell, Dean had scared Tracee, too. Each time the older Winchester got this way, it made her chest clench painfully. His attitude hadn't needed to be directed at her to feel it. She still didn't understand why he was acting out like this. He shouldn't be. However, clearly, there was something else on his mind other than this case. Sam had been right. Maybe it had started off as a distraction, but the deeper they got into this, the more agitated he seemed.

"Please don't do that," Tracee turned to Dr. Mason, hoping her expression was pleading enough. Dean snatched away from his brother's hold and stomped towards the door. "My friend is not… well at the moment. We'll leave and you won't be bothered again. I'm sorry." The professor did not outwardly respond, but his body did tremble because of the altercation. Definitely not a man solid enough to summon the dead. Coming to this man's home had been a mistake, and now they didn't have a primary suspect anymore.

"Really sorry, sir," Sam echoed, and then guided her towards the door. "We're leaving. We're so sorry!" They hurried and made their exit, managing to catch up to the older Winchester. "What the hell's the matter with you, Dean?!" The question was waved aside as he took the steps two at a time. "That man was innocent! He didn't deserve that!"

"Okay, so she's not here. Maybe he's keeping her somewhere else," Dean mentioned.

"No, I don't think he knows what's going on at all," Tracee stated.

"Well, I find that hard to believe," he retorted. "We all agreed that he was suspect number one."

"Number  _one_ ," she emphasized. "There might be others! You didn't have to go ham on this guy!"

"How else are we supposed to get the information, Trace?!"

"Dean, enough!" Sam shouted.

"Back off, Sam, I know what I'm doing," Dean said.

"No, you don't, not this time! That was  _completely_  unnecessary!" Sam continued. "Look, man, I know what this is about. This started as an imaginary case so you wouldn't have to think about mom or dad, and now that you're in so deep, it's twisting you inside! Something just triggered you, and now you're acting insane! You're lucky this turned out to be a real case because if it hadn't, you just would've found something else to kill." Dean halted in his tracks, staring at his brother in confusion. Sam stopped, too, facing his brother. Tracee silently watched a few steps away. She had intervened when Sam had tried before, but maybe this was the time for talking.

"Shut up," Dean said.

"No! What you just did scared the hell outta me!" Sam continued. "Something is  _wrong_ , and you refuse to talk about it. You won't let me help you!" Dean shook his head, beginnings of a fake smile forming. "No, no, Dean, don't you do that! You slap on a big fake smile, but I can see right through that! Because I know how you feel! Dad's dead, and he left a hole, and it hurts so bad that you can't take it, but you can't just fill it up with distractions! I can't watch you job after job, spiraling and tail spinning out of control! You  _need_  to talk about this, alright?! Or you're just gonna find a reason to be like this on every single job until it kills you! I-"

Without warning, Dean sharply turned and struck his brother with a hard fist to the face. Lips parting in surprise, Tracee felt her eyes go wide as Sam fell to the ground, holding his nose. Blood seeped through his fingers. Dean had veered from chill to on edge—back and forth—since they had picked up this case. Something had caused him to become straight up hostile. Plus, he had already been feeling more than enough pressure than one person should hold. Tracee understood this. She really did, but… That punch had been uncalled for.

Feeling herself growl, Tracee grabbed Dean by the front of his jacket. Barely thinking about it, she slammed him hard against a nearby tree. He nearly gagged from the impact, but she couldn't bring herself to care at the moment. "You listen to me very carefully, Dean Winchester," she began, mere inches from his face. Her upper lip lifted in a snarl. Dean stared wide-eyed at her, trying to catch his breath. "Now, I realize in your current condition that might be a little difficult since the wind has been knocked out of you, so I'll speak slowly."

"Trace-" he rasped.

"I don't know what it is about this particular case that has you acting the way you have been, and right now I could care less," Tracee continued, ignoring the way his hands came up in a feeble attempt to pry her fingers from his jacket. "But what you just did to your brother  _cannot_  happen again. So you need to come with something to do to ensure that it  _won't_  happen a second time. Otherwise, I might not be able to stop myself next time. Hell, I might not  _want_  to. Do you understand?" It took him a minute, but Dean finally gave several rapid nods. Tracee released him, and he fell to the ground. She may have held him up a few inches.

Tracee turned only to drop down in order to help the younger Winchester up. He took her hand, eyes still on his brother. Through half of his mouth was still covered, his expression was astonished. Not in a good way either. Obviously, she hadn't known Dean as long as Sam had, but judging from her lover's look, that had been the first time Dean had hit him. Or maybe it had been the first in a long time. She couldn't know for sure, but the strike had surprised him—maybe even had hurt him, and not in the physical sense.

"We… We should leave before the cops come," Sam said, voice muffled by his hand.

"Tilt your head back, darling," Tracee said. She shifted her gaze to Dean. He opened his mouth, but he couldn't seem to form the words. She scoffed at the attempt. "Get up," she told him, apathetic. "We have a zombie to slay." Without another word or a backwards glance, Tracee continued her way down the sidewalk, along with Sam. She shut her eyes as she moved. It was an effort to stomp down on feelings of shame… and disappointment.

 

0-0

 

He felt like an ass. And the feeling had not gone away in the time it took to go back to the motel room. The prolonged silence wasn't helping either. Neither his brother nor Tracee had spoken to him since the incident on that sidewalk. They had been busying themselves with researching, trying to find ways to kill a zombie. A fricking zombie of all things. Well, Sam had been looking through their dad's journal. He sat on the edge of his bed, completely focused. Tracee, sitting behind him with her back against the wall, held Angela's diary in her lap, reading entry after entry. Completely silent. It was unnerving.

"So…" Dean began. "I saw some whipped cream in the fridge… But there was no dessert to go with it, so I was wondering what that was for." He wasn't an idiot. He knew exactly what the canned cream had been bought for. The coloring of Sam's cheeks as he cleared his throat was the confirmation. But the mention of the whipped cream had just been the bait. Normally, Tracee would smugly tell him exactly what she had planned to use it for, probably saying something along the lines of 'Oh, your brother's the dessert.' As gross as that would be, he would take it. But in this case, she remained quiet. Stone-faced, she flipped another page in the diary. "Okay then…" Dean awkwardly looked away from the bed, tapping his fingers against the table he sat at.

Honestly, that hadn't been his first attempt to get a rise out of the tiny tank. They had been in the hotel room for hours now. He had made several attempts to get her to talk. He had tried mentioning food. That hadn't worked. He had tried getting rap lyrics wrong. It had always annoyed her when he made fun of her rapping, so he had been sure she would snap at him for it. Nope. She hadn't budged. This felt worse than the last time she had refused to speak with him. They had both made efforts to make up, or, at least, talk. This time, it felt like he had been trying to make up with a brick wall.

Huffing, Dean stood up from his chair, and began pacing the length of the room. Sam sighed heavily, but didn't speak. Tracee ignored him. After a few minutes of that, Dean finally let his frustrations known. "Come on, Trace! How long are you going to do this?!" he questioned, stopping at the foot of the bed. She stubbornly remained quiet, not sparing him a glance. "I mean, I already apologized!" Finally, her expression changed. Her eyebrows knitted close together as she tilted her head to the side, frowning.

" _Did_  you…?" she questioned.

"…" Dean looked up in thought, and then grimaced when he realized that he hadn't. Call him crazy, but maybe he had been too preoccupied with the  _threat_  from the Slayer. And it had been a threat. Man, he couldn't believe he had been on the receiving it. It had been terrifying. The tiny tank really knew how to instill fear. He… had deserved it, though. Dean should have never let it come to taking a swing at Sam. He had been a complete ass. "Well, I'm sorry…!" he blurted out. Tracee's right brow jumped, but she did not open her mouth to speak. "I know I was being a jerk, and I shouldn't have-" The diary in Tracee's lap snapped shut. She turned her head, eyes glaring at him.

"I am not the one you should be apologizing to," she said.

"… Sam… Sammy," Dean looked at brother to find that he was still focused on their dad's journal. He winced. He definitely should have apologized sooner. "Look, man, you know that I didn't mean anything by that, right? That was… Listen, I don't know what came over me."

"I think you know exactly what came over you," Sam replied. He shifted his head to look at Dean. "But you don't want to talk about it, Dean. I get it." His brother visibly swallowed before looking back at the pages of the journal. "So let's just focus on the job right now." Dean sighed heavily before resuming his pacing.

"You've been looking for so long now," he grumbled. "We can't just waste her with a head shot?"

"Dude, you've been watching way too many Romero flicks," Sam commented with a shake of his head.

"You're telling me there's no lore on how to smoke 'em?" Dean questioned, sitting down at the table again.

"No, Dean, I'm telling you there's too much," Sam corrected. "I mean, there's a hundred different legends on the walking dead, but they all have different methods for killing them. Some say setting them on fire. One said—where is it?" He flipped through some pages as he stood up and joined Dean at the table. "Right here—feeding their hearts to wild dogs. That's my personal favorite. But who knows what's real and what's myth?" Sam shut the journal and tossed it onto the nearby bed.

"Is there anything they all have in common?" Dean asked.

"No, but a few said silver might work," he answered.

"Silver's a start."

"But now how are we going to find Angela?" Sam asked.

"By seeking out her next victim," Tracee announced. Both brothers turned to her, looking for an explanation. She stood up and walked off the bed. "I have a feeling that it was that Patrick guy that brought her back. After thinking about it, why would someone so close genuinely seem okay with her death? He was the only one that wasn't so obviously shaken. Not to mention that he has access to the professor's office and his books because he's the TA." Dean nodded his head in agreement. Plus, this guy clearly had some unrequited love for the girl. "But he's not important at the moment. We can confront him later. We find the second victim and Angelica comes to us."

"How'd you come up with that?" Sam asked. "I mean, she already killed her boyfriend for cheating."

"Because it takes  _two_  people to cheat," Dean stated, following along with Tracee's mindset. The tiny tank nodded her head. "Angela probably wouldn't stop at just going after one. And now that I think about it, I'm pretty sure I know who the next victim is. Her roommate was really broken up over Matt's death. I mean, like  _really_  broken up."

"Wow…!" Tracee shook her head, raising both eyebrows. "So a cheater, a backstabber, and a necromancer walked into a bar.  _Fun_  times." Scoffing, she tossed the diary on the bed, and then headed over to their bags. "I'm going to go change for the stakeout." She grabbed jeans and a t-shirt from her bag, and then went into the bathroom.

"Can't believe we have to kill a zombie," Sam muttered. "Our lives are weird."

"… Yeah, you're telling me," Dean returned with a sigh.

 

0-0

 

Turns out, the decision to stakeout had been good. But the zombie ended up escaping. Silver bullets had done something, but hadn't been able to kill. Angela had run off, really fast, and Dean had lost sight of her while Tracee and Sam hung back to console the roommate. Well, Sam had consoled. Tracee had said some pretty petty words, and had felt no pity whatsoever. Luckily, Lindsey had been so thankful that her life had been saved, she had pretty much just taken the words with an eager nod.

Now, the three of them were riding down the road, intending to get to Neal. More than likely, the zombie would have fled to her 'maker' since she had been hurt. Unfortunately, the guy hadn't been at his house and neither had Angela, so they were rushing to the college, hoping they'd find him working. Maybe the zombie would be there, too. "So the bullets didn't work. What else we got?" Dean questioned.

" _Um_ , okay…" Sam flipped more pages in their dad's journal. "Besides silver, we have nailing the undead back into their grave beds. It's mentioned a few times. It's probably where the whole vampire-staking lore came from."

"So someone thought they were staking a vampire, but it was actually a zombie?" Tracee questioned from the back. She sighed heavily. "That seems really extra. Why can't I just slice her head off?"

"Who's to say her body wouldn't keep moving afterwards?" Sam shut the journal and set it down in his lap. "Like in  _The Legend of Sleepy Hollow_. The headless horseman."

"Well, how the hell are we gonna get Angela back to the cemetery?" Dean questioned, annoyed. He didn't receive answers or suggestions from either of the nerds. He sighed heavily, and then applied more pressure to the gas. They reached the college in relatively short time. They hurriedly worked their way through, finally coming across Dr. Mason's office. There seemed to be a single light coming from the office. Skipping the knocking, Dean opened the door. Looking startled, Neal focused his eyes on them.

"What are you guys doing here?" he asked.

"You know, I've heard of some people doing pretty desperate things to get laid, but you-" Dean began, and then clicked his tongue. Tracee shut the door behind them. "-you take the cake."

"Okay, who are you three?" Neal questioned, dropping his pen.

"You might want to ask Angela that question," Dean suggested sarcastically.

"We know what you did," Sam spoke up. "The ritual…  _everything_."

"You're crazy," Neal scoffed.

"Your girlfriend's past her expiration date, and  _we're_  crazy?" Dean asked. "When someone's gone, they should stay gone. You don't mess with that kinda stuff." Even as the words came from his mouth, he couldn't deny the pangs of irony that pushed down on his chest. Dean clenched his teeth, glaring at Neal. The accusations had gotten to him. He was guilty, and it showed in his eyes.

"Angela killed Matt," Sam stated. "She tried to kill Lindsey!"

"I don't know what you're talking about," Neal denied.

"You  _do_ ," Tracee said. "Because you have dead plants around you."

Dean's eyes widened, and then his gaze darted around. Sure enough, there were decaying plants behind Neal's sitting form. Angela was here, and Tracee could probably sense her. Then he noticed the other door, probably leading to a closet, or something. The zombie was probably listening. Thinking quickly, he came up with a plan. "You know, it doesn't really matter where she is," he said. "There's only one way to stop her. We've gotta perform another ritual over her grave—to reverse the one that you did." Neal glanced quickly in the closet's direction, giving himself away. "We're gonna need some black roots, some scar weed, some candles—it's all very complicated, but we'll get the job done. She'll be dead again in a couple hours." He was talking out the side of his neck, but they didn't know that.

"You hear that, Patrick? Angelica will die again anyway once we perform the ritual," Tracee said, just a bit louder. She had picked up on his lure. Good. "You should come with us to… repent."

"… No," Neal whispered feebly.

"We're serious, Neal," Dean insisted. "Leave with us  _right now_."

"No," he said again. "No."

"… We tried," Tracee said quietly. "Let's go."

Dean felt himself sighing as she backed up towards the door. He leaned forward, hands on the desk. "Listen to me," he insisted in a low voice. "Get out of here as soon as you can. But most of all, be cool. No sudden movements.  _Don't_  make her mad." Neal only looked confused, but, at least, Dean had tried to give a warning. He sighed again, pushing away from the desk. He nodded to Tracee and Sam, signaling that they were leaving. They exited the office without looking back. Like, Tracee had said, they had tried.

"Was she in there?" Sam questioned once they made it out of the building.

"She was," Tracee stated. "Probably in that closet, but it wouldn't have done any good if we tried anything there. Dean's lure was clever." Said Winchester grinned at the compliment. "The only thing we can do now is go to the cemetery and wait for her to take the bait."

"Okay, so I'm guessing we're gonna be using candles to make her come to the grave?" Sam asked.

"Yeah, but we're also going to use another tactic so this can be as precise as possible," Dean stated.

"Yeah…? What's that?"

"Live bait," he answered with a wide grin.

"What's he gonna do? Dress in drag and do the hula?" Tracee asked, matching his wide grin.

"No. No, I'm not doing that," Sam protested. "You weren't thinking about me doing that, were you?"

"… Trace does have a lot of dresses, I've noticed."

"We can go buy him one in his size," Tracee suggested. "Ooh,  _can_  we?"

"No…! Stop—we're not talking about this!"

Both Dean and Tracee laughed loudly as they climbed into the Impala.

The drive back to the cemetery only took a few minutes. Once there, the three immediately began to set up. Large white candles were placed around the hole that had been created previously, marking the grave. "Don't you have any scented candles?" Tracee muttered, lifting one of the remaining candles to light it. She now had her own zippo lighter, so now she had no reason to steal Dean's. Or so he thought. He had spent a few minutes looking for the one that should have been in his jacket pocket before she had casually handed him the lighter. Now she was asking about scented candles? The tiny tank knew no shame.

" _Why_  would we need scented candles?" Dean question with a shake of his head.

"Because I like nice smells," Tracee answered as if it were obvious. "And if we keep doing fake rituals and séances, we deserve to smell nice things instead of, you know, death." Dean only groaned in an overdramatic way while his brother chuckled at the exchange.

"You really think this is going to work?" Sam asked.

"I don't see why not," Tracee commented. "It's not like she'd know any better."

"It was the only thing I could come up with at the time," Dean stated.

"Honestly… It's a really good plan—pretty sharp," Sam said.

Before Dean could reply, a rustling noise caught his attention. He lifted his head and slowly lowered the lit candle back to the ground. Sam and Tracee had heard the noise, too. He couldn't see anything from his vantage point, but he wasn't about to ignore it. The sound had come from a nearby thicket. Dean met the eyes of his brother, giving him the go ahead. Sam returned the nod and slowly stood to his full height, pulling his gun from the back of his jeans. With a click, his brother took off in the direction that the noise had come from. "Be careful…!" Tracee whispered.

"You, too…!" he replied in a hushed voice.

Dean watched his brother disappeared in the thicket, looking for the zombie. His job was to find her, and give her a reason to chase him back to her grave. It wouldn't take too long. Clearing this throat, Dean turned his attention to Tracee. Her eyes were still on the spot where Sam had disappeared. "Trace…" he began. She turned her gaze to him. "Look, I… I'm really sorry about what happened earlier. But I swear to you, it won't happen again." For a moment, she regarded him with unreadable eyes. Then her expression softened, and a low sigh left her mouth.

"It better not," Tracee said. He nodded again. It wouldn't. Never again. "… And, Dean… Don't think for a second that I would let him do the same to you—that I wouldn't react the same if Samuel hit you. I don't want to see either of you getting hurt, especially by each other."

"… Thanks, Trace. I mean it," he said.

The tiny tank smiled at him, and honestly, he felt better. She wasn't giving him the cold shoulder anymore. Suddenly, a gunshot echoed in the night. A signal. Tracee lost her smile and stood from her crouched position. "Get ready," she said. Dean sharply nodded. Just then Sam came dashing towards them with Angela hot on his heels. The zombie took his brother down, landing on top of him. Tracee immediately bolted in their direction, running so fast to reach them. Before the zombie could snap Sam's neck, the tiny tank barreled into her, knocking Angela from on top of his brother.

Dean held his breath as his fingers flexed around the silver stake. Tracee and Angela wrestled for a moment on the ground before standing. The zombie's reached out to grip Tracee's neck, but the tiny tank brought her arms up, forming an x. Angela had tried to go around, but Tracee swiftly separated her arms, smacking them against the outstretched limbs. Angela's arms spread out, giving Tracee the opportunity to deliver a vicious head-butt. Angela stumbled back, arms flailing. Tracee swiftly lifted her right leg, nailing the zombie in the abdomen. The strike sent the dead girl flying, only to land straight into her own grave.

Dean quickly stood up, gripping the stake. Then he jumped down, plunging the stake into her chest. "Please, don't…!" she screamed, but Dean only pressed most of his weight down. He could hear the stake breaking through bones as it sank deeper inside her. The zombie gasped before finally going limp in her casket.

Pursing his lips, Dean stared down at the dead girl for a moment. He released his hold on the top of the silver stake. He clenched his teeth, breathing sharply through his nose. "What's dead should stay dead," he spoke out loud. Then, swallowing with difficulty, Dean slammed the casket door shut, ending the job once and for all. Only then could he breathe right. He pressed his back against the dirt wall and tilted his head back. Dean squeezed his eyes shut as a ragged breath left him. Well… not breathe right exactly, but at least he could at all.

 

0-0

 

Sam, once again, found himself rubbing his wrist as he watched his brother and his girlfriend pat at the ground with their shovels. It had taken the rest of night, but with the morning sun in the sky, they seemed to be finished reburying the dead. Sam had tried to help, but Tracee had taken his shovel and had told him to sit back and relax. Maybe she had noticed how awkwardly he moved his hand. At any rate, the two of them stopped moving, and merely stared down at their finished work. Sam pushed himself from the side of the Impala, waiting for them to walk over. They headed towards him after picking up their respective jackets from the ground.

"How are you feeling, Samuel?" Tracee asked once she made it to him.

"It aches a little," he told her. "I think she broke my hand."

"You're just too fragile, Sammy," Dean remarked with a chuckle. "We'll get it looked at later."

His brother then turned. Noticing, Sam followed his line of sight while Tracee headed towards the back of the car to place the shovel in the trunk. Sam pressed his lips together, realizing what Dean had been staring at. From here, they could see their mother's headstone. Frowning, he shifted his line of sight to his brother, who had only stood in place. Sam inhaled slowly. "You… You want to stay for a while?" he questioned. It took Dean a long moment to answer.

"… No," he said. Sam shouldn't have expected any different. His brother turned and walked towards the trunk to deposit his own shovel. More than likely, this wouldn't be brought up again. Sam sighed heavily, but made sure to keep it silent. He would just have to roll with it. Honestly, he wasn't a fan of being punched. He had told Tracee that he could take it, but… he hadn't been able to. He had been shocked… and a little hurt, so he hadn't wanted a repeat any time soon. So Sam kept his mouth shut. Dean slammed the trunk down and, without a word, moved to climb into the driver's seat.

Tracee opened his door for him, smiling at him. He almost chuckled at the reverse of the situation as he carefully worked his way into the passenger side. She shut the door after he murmured a thanks to her, and then took her seat in the back of the Impala. Maybe with the closing of this case, things would go back to normal—their normal. Sam leaned back, holding in a grimace as he rested his right arm across his lap. Hopefully, they would be able to take a few days off—maybe a week—because his hand really hurt. Angela must have made him twist it on the way down. Better than a broken neck, but still…

Sam tried to get as comfortable as he could, considering, as the car began moving. Eventually, he stopped thinking about the ache in his hand, and chose to just watch the scenery passing by. This went on for a while until he noticed the Impala was slowing down. Sam blinked once, and then looked over at his brother. With his hands gripping the wheel, Dean pulled over to the side of the road. Furrowing his brow, Sam watched him turn off the car. Then his brother opened the door and got out, not saying a word.

Confused, he stared for a moment before glancing towards the backseat. Tracee had fallen asleep with her earphones in. She hadn't noticed the stop at all, and went on dreaming, oblivious to the odd behavior Dean had shown. Frowning, Sam got out of the car and slowly approached his brother. Dean had leaned against the hood of his car, hands shoved into his pockets. "Dean, what is it?" Sam questioned. There was a long pause before Dean opened his mouth to respond.

"I'm sorry," he said.

"For what?"

"… The way I've been acting," Dean explained. "You didn't deserve that hit, Sammy." He lowered his head as though he was ashamed. Sam swallowed, and then moved to mirror his brother's position. "I'm sorry… for dad, too. I mean, he was your dad, too. It's not like you've been having a good time with it. It's my fault he's gone."

"What are you talking about?" Sam questioned.

"I know you've been thinking it—so have I," Dean muttered. "Doesn't take a genius to figure it out. Back at the hospital, I had a full recovery. It was a miracle. And five minutes later, dad's dead, and the Colt's gone. You can't tell me there's not a connection there." Honestly, Sam hadn't thought about it. Too guilt-ridden and in his own feelings to bother connecting the dots. And yet his brother had clearly been thinking about it a lot. "I don't know how the Demon was involved. I don't know how the whole thing went down exactly, but… dad's dead because of me. And that much I do know."

Oh, God… That had been on his brother's mind this whole time? No wonder he hadn't wanted to talk. No wonder he had lashed out. Something like that—of course Dean had tried hard to keep it inside. Sam, himself, had wanted to keep the guilt inside. But he had had Tracee. She had listened and tried to reassure him. But now that the ball was in his court, and his brother had confessed his guilt, Sam didn't know what to say.

"I never should have come back, Sam," Dean continued. "It wasn't natural. And now look what's come of it. I was  _dead_. And I should have stayed dead." In the light of the morning sun, Sam could see the tears gathering in his brother's eyes. It hurt, and he felt his own tears trying to slip through. "You wanted to know how I was feeling. Well, there you go. So tell me…" His voice had cracked a bit, and a tear had managed to escape. "What could you possibly say to make that all right?" Finally, Dean looked at him, another tear sliding down his cheek. "Really, man, I-I need to know."

There was nothing. There was absolutely nothing he could say to counteract guilt like that. Nothing would make any of that all right. His brother thought he should have been the one to  _die_. Dean felt it would have been okay it that had happened. Sam lowered his head. No one would have been okay with that, though, so it made sense what might have happened. "Dean…" Sam began. He bit his lower lip. "I understand what you're going through… You were right. I wasn't dealing with dad's death. My own guilt stopped me from doing that." Sam turned to Dean, mentally preparing himself for the confession. "You saw that last conversation I had with him, but that isn't why I feel guilty. Truth is… I told him to go sacrifice himself."

"What…?" Dean stared in shock.

"We were arguing, but the difference was that you were dying, and I thought… I thought he cared more about facing the Demon than his own son, so I told him to go get his revenge by himself and die alone," Sam admitted. He clenched his jaw and shut his eyes. He felt tears trickling down his cheeks. "Then he  _did_. He went and he finally listened to me. So you're not the only one feeling the guilt." Sam wiped at his face. "And nothing anyone says is going to change the guilt we feel, but, Dean…" He turned to his brother. "We can get through this. We still have each other. We don't have to handle anything on our own anymore. You're going to kill yourself if you do. You're one of the last important people in my life. I… I can't lose you, too."

For a long moment, Dean didn't respond. Then he squeezed his eyes shut and shook his head. "… Real great sons we are, right?" he finally muttered. "We're so messed up, man." Sam breathed in deeply through his noise, nodding his head in agreement. Then Dean shrugged his shoulders, right hand moving from his jacket pocket to wipe the liquid from his cheeks. "But I guess… you're right. We lost mom. We lost dad… I don't think we can afford to lose each other."

"We won't," Sam said. "That's a promise. We'll have each other's backs no matter what."

"Yeah," Dean agreed. "Us against the world."

0-0

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I saw the first episode of the new season, and... it messed me up. Like, why do they keep doing this to Dean. He does not deserve half of the crap he goes through, and yet they just keep doing crap to him. It's awful. Dean needs a support group, I swear. Honestly, watching the episode made me reconsider where I intend to take this story. I don't know yet. Maybe I shouldn't watch the new season anymore... But Jake is so cute! He's adorable, and I can't wait to see Dean and Sam turn into dads. Spoilers. It's gonna happen.


	27. Persuasion & Smokescreens

"I don't know, man. Why don't we just chill out, and think about this?" Dean questioned.

"What's there to think about?" Sam retorted.

"Just don't know if going to the Roadhouse is the smartest idea," Dean explained.

"It's another premonition—I know it!" Sam stated. "This is gonna happen, and  _Ash_  can tell us where."

"I'm not denying that, okay?" Dean said. "It's just… there's going to be other hunters there. I don't know if going in there and announcing you're some sorta supernatural freak with a demonic connection is the best thing!"

"So… I'm a freak now?" Sam asked.

"… You've always been a freak," Dean hesitantly remarked, playfully slapping his brother's thigh.

"Always…?" Tracee chimed from her seat in the back. "Well,  _that_  explains a few things."

"Trace, come on, don't be gross."

The Slayer chuckled, smile lingering for just a moment as she shifted her gaze to the rushing world outside the Impala. Currently, they were somewhere in Nebraska, on their way to the Roadhouse. Everything had been fine until they had made a pit stop at a gas station. Sam had taken longer than he should have in the restroom. Both Tracee and Dean had thought it weird because Sam never liked to spend too much time in public restrooms. So Dean had gone in wondering what the holdup had been, and they had both come out, claiming that Sam had had a premonition.

Tracee sighed internally, folding her arms over her chest. Since then, Sam had been on edge. Clearly, he was worrying over this vision. From what he had told them, the vision had been brutal, and since they all knew that his visions tied with the Demon, there could be lot riding on his premonition. Tracee really wished that they knew more before his vision had hit, but it seemed like they had no other choice. Back into the fray they went, which meant the impeding second confrontation with Capital D was coming faster than anticipated. Somehow, she needed to become better prepared. Because right now, it felt like walking around in the dark.

Eventually, the Impala came to a stop. Sam immediately hopped out of the car, not stopping for his usual routine of opening the door for her. Tracee watched him go, and then sighed heavily when he entered the saloon. Dean turned his head and twisted in his seat to look her way. "What do we do? What if-" he began to ask, but Tracee shook her head.

"Cassie hasn't gotten back to us yet," she stated. "We… remain ignorant until we know more. That's the plan—we're sticking to it no matter who this vision is about." Dean let out a long sigh. His two fingers rubbed at his temple, and then he nodded his head. "However… if he gets too…" Images of the first time she had experienced Sam having a vision came to mind. He had been tense and nervous then as well. " _Involved_ -" Tracee finally found the word. "-then we only reassure him, distract him if we need to, but we can't have him beating himself up over this, or worse."

"What's worse?"

" _Comparing_  himself," Tracee replied. "Remember? He tried to do the same thing with Max. Based on this particular vision, I've got a really bad feeling this person is  _nothing_  like Max, and I don't want Samuel thinking he's the same as whoever this person is." Dean clenched his jaw, and then nodded again. "Okay, so let's go." The two of them climbed out of the Impala, following Sam's path into the Roadhouse. Once they entered the building, they were greeted by a frowning Jo Harvelle.

"So Sam just rudely walked by," she greeted them.

"Don't mind him. He's—well, we're kinda on a timetable," Dean replied. "Where'd he go?"

"Back room, looking for Ash," Jo stated.

"Thanks," Dean said over his shoulder, already moving.

"… I'm fine, by the way," she muttered, folding her arms.

Ignoring her for the moment, Tracee discreetly scanned the saloon. From her vantage point, she could see four other patrons. Of those four, two looked like hunters—dressed in plaid and trucker hats. The men were sitting at a table with a map in between them. Not to mention, they had knives and guns out as well. Also, they seemed to have a staring problem. Since she and Dean had walked in actually. This was probably exactly what Dean hadn't wanted. Eyes on them. It probably hadn't helped that she had gave Gordon a warning to tell his hunter grapevine about the three of them. Who knows what they could be thinking now?

"Ash isn't busy, is he?" Tracee shifted her attention to Jo.

"Don't know," she stated, shrugging. "No one really knows what he does in his room."

"Not even you?"

"Why  _would_  I?"

"… You're not together?"

"No!" Jo nearly screeched.

"Huh. My mistake," Tracee said, and then headed towards the back. She could hear the blonde practically hissing in fury. Odd. With the way she had reacted when Ash had called Tracee Valkyrie… But she decided it didn't really matter right now what her fellow Slayer got up to in her free time. Just as she was about to head towards the back, Dean and Sam came through the door. Both wore grimaces as though they had witnessed something disturbing. "What? Did you walk in on him naked?" she joked. Their grimaces deepened. "Wow… Some of us are luckier than others."

"Not funny," Sam said, shaking his head. Keeping the chuckle to herself, Tracee followed the brothers to an unoccupied table. "He'll be out as soon as he gets pants on." They sat down, but Dean chose to remain standing. He took off his jacket and hung it on the back of the chair Tracee had chosen to sit on. Sam carefully removed his jacket, not wanting to jostle his injured hand. He had to wear a cast for a while due to his run in with the zombie. His uninjured hand reached for a napkin, and then began drawing on it with a pen in had pulled from the pocket of his jeans. "What I saw had a bus with this logo on it," he stated once he had finished.

"So you're hoping Ash will be able to tell us the location," Tracee nodded her head in understanding.

"Couldn't we have just Googled it?" Dean asked. "It has the name right there." He was clearly antsy about being here. Tracee understood his concern. He hadn't wanted any hunter knowing about any of this. One, it was their hunt. Two, his brother wasn't just another hunter. Close-minded people tended not to care about greys. And after Gordon, Dean was hard-pressed to trust  _another_  hunter. Especially with sensitive information. Admittedly, it had taken a lot of convincing for Dean to allow Ash to find names for them. However, this wasn't a request over the phone. This was a request in person, where anyone could overhear their conversation. No wonder his eyes continuously darted around the bar, glaring at anyone who looked in their direction for too long.

"Yeah, we could have, but Ash might be able to give more information," Sam stated. "He might actually give us a  _name_. And a name is better than a location, especially in this case." Dean sighed heavily, choosing not to comment. A few minutes went by before Ash appeared with his laptop. He sat down and was immediately given the napkin. The genius took it without a word, examining the image for a moment before setting it down on the table beside his open laptop. Sam tapped his foot impatiently as Ash typed away on his laptop. Tracee pressed her lips together, and then rested a hand on his knee. Sam sighed, relaxing under her touch. Then he moved his uninjured hand on top of hers. His fingers threaded with hers.

"So… I've got a match," Ash announced. Sam squeezed her hand, waiting for the results. "It's the logo for the Blue Ridge bus lines. Guthrie, Oklahoma."

"Okay, do me a favor," Sam said. "Check Guthrie for any demonic signs or omens or anything like that."

"You think the Demon is there?" Ash questioned, quickly striking the keys of his laptop. Sam hesitantly gave a vague answer. "Why would you think that?"

"Just check it, alright?" Dean grumbled, gaze still darting around the bar.

"… No, sir, nothing," Ash stated after a pause. "No demon."

"Alright…" Sam's grip on Tracee increased. "Try something else for me. Search Guthrie for a house fire. It would be 1983. Fire's origin would be a baby's nursery, night of the kid's six month birthday." Ash sharply turned his head in his direction. Dean and Tracee looked at one another, shoulders tense with worry. Not only had the request been oddly specific, but it had also been the same request Dean had made a few weeks back. Only that request had been nationwide, not just for a single city. This latest vision could tie to one of the people Cassie was already looking into.

"Okay, now that is just weird, man," Ash commented, eyes glancing at Dean. The older Winchester tensed even more. Tracee nervously reached up to scratch her neck, hoping the genius would have enough sense to not blurt out he had already done that type of search. "Why the hell would I be looking for that when I-"

"Because if you do it…!" Tracee cut in hastily, gaining Ash's attention. "… There's a kiss in it for you." Sam sucked in a huge breath, obviously not liking the bargain. "From Dean," she finished, which earned incredulous protest from the older brother. Sam snorted in amusement, a good contrast to his previous uneasy posture.

"Give me fifteen minutes," Ash said, focused and determined.

"You can't just  _barter_  my lips, Trace!" Dean said.

"Why not?  _All_  your assets should be used. You're pretty. You're single. We should use that," Tracee replied, nonchalantly. "So… take one for the team." The older brother glowered, while Sam blurted out laughter.

"I need to get drunk," Dean muttered, heading over to the bar.

 

0-0

 

Dean sighed as he stared down at the bottom of his near empty glass of beer. No hard liquor for him since he intended to drive after this, but with the way this job was going, he might need a stiff one. Honestly, this wasn't even a job. It was something that had to do with these other kids his brother kept connecting to. First Max, then that baby, and now whoever the hell this was. And Tracee had been right. Max might have been borderline psycho, but his reasons for taking out his abusive family had been… grey. Calculative self-defense. To stop the pain and fear. Dean had understood. But this latest vision hadn't seemed like self-defense at all. True, he couldn't judge without context, but the murders in this particular vision were over the top. Too bloody for his liking, and again, without an obvious threat behind it. Dean had a feeling that whoever this new psychic was wouldn't be calmed down with words.

_You're all I ever wanted_ …

_You're all I ever needed… yeah!_

_So tell me what to do now_

_Cuz I want you back_

Frowning, Dean looked up from his glass, eyes shifting over to where the sudden music had come from. Tracee stood at the jukebox, oblivious to his stare. Holding a glass of clear liquid, she looked down at the selections. Even from the side view, Dean could tell that she was frowning, not at all impressed by the options. Then why the hell had she chosen this one? Shaking his head, Dean drained the rest of his glass. "Didn't see that coming." The familiar voice of Jo Harvelle caused him to set down the glass. The baby Slayer was a few seats over, wiping at the bar's counter. Her dark eyes turned his way as a slight smile formed on her face. "Didn't take her for a NSYNC fan."

"I doubt she is," Dean commented, watching as the tiny tank left the music machine, huff on her lips. She headed back over to Sam, who hadn't moved from the table as Ash worked on his laptop. Dean shifted his attention back to the blonde as the lyrics of a pop song continued to invade his eardrums. He shook his head again. Tracee couldn't have liked pop music, could she? He had never heard her singing any. Nah, it had probably just been the only song that she could recognize. "She's more of a DMX kinda girl."

"I don't know who that is."

"I wish I could say the same."

"So,  _um_ …" Jo drifted closer, looking over her shoulder. Behind the bar, her mom busied herself with restocking. "That profile you got Ash looking for?" She turned her gaze back to him. "Your… mom died the same way, didn't she? The fire in Sam's nursery?" Dean's eyebrows rose in surprise, wondering how she knew about it. Had his dad eventually told this family about it? It couldn't be Tracee spilling the beans. The tiny tank still hadn't gotten the girl's name right.

"Look, Jo, it's… kinda a family thing," Dean stated.

"Family thing… Right, of course," Jo replied, folding her arms with a grumpy frown on her face. "That's why Tracee's tagging along?"

"Well, yeah, she's-" Dean blinked once, feeling his eyebrows squeeze closer together. Without thought, he had included her. Huh. He wondered when that had happened. "She's our Slayer," he continued, glancing towards his brother and the tiny tank. She had given her glass of water to Sam, and was now speaking unheard words to him. His brother nodded and kept his gaze on her. Dean didn't think Sam would be as calm if it weren't for Tracee. He, himself, wasn't good at it, but Tracee had a knack for it. "She's been involved for a while now. She knows what's going on. Like I said."

"I could help, too," Jo insisted, making him shift his attention back to her. "She's not the only Slayer around. Apparently."

"You probably could," Dean agreed. "But we've gotta handle this one ourselves. Besides, if we ran off with you… I think your mother might kill me."

"You're afraid of my mother?" Jo asked, incredulously.

"I think so, yes. Hell, if you wasn't a Slayer yourself, I'd think it'd be her."

Jo shook her head, amused by that. But before she could comment, Sam came over with a file in his hand. "We have a match," he stated, sounding rushed. "We've gotta go." He then turned and headed for the door. Well, duty was calling, so Dean stood up from the barstool. He noticed that Tracee hadn't followed his brother, so he looked towards the right. The tiny tank was still sitting down, having a conversation with Ash. His jacket was still hanging from the back of her chair. He gave Jo a 'see you later,' and then walked over to Tracee and Ash.

"What's the hold up? I'm pretty sure Sammy's gonna drive off without us," Dean said. Tracee turned to him, expression serious. "What's going on?"

"It's the match, Dean," she replied. "Ash already gave us the name."

"No kidding? You think this one might be…" he trailed off, knowing Tracee would understand his line of questioning. She shook her head. Yeah, it was probably too early to tell. Last time, she hadn't known until Max had said the exact same words he had in her dream. Did that change anything? Not really. Dean had already realized that there had been people in Tracee's dream that had been that hadn't requested help. Instead, they had said to hurt them. So that must have meant they were bad news and couldn't be saved. This particular psychic seemed to be bad news, leaving them no choice but to hurt. "Should I call Cassie? She might have found something useful."

"I gave all the information I could to Sam already, which, by the way, was more than you two asked for," Ash stated. Dean and Tracee exchanged a look. "It seems to me like this is a case of the left hand not knowing what the right is doing."

"At the time, we only needed a name," Tracee said. "Thank you for your assistance thus far, but your genius is no longer needed for this. I ask that you do not look into the second name. And don't… tell anyone about this." Ash stared at her for a moment before ultimately nodding his head. He picked up his laptop, and then walked off. "To answer your question, Dean, I think it'd be a good idea to call her later on. Ash might have given the facts, but she might have insight to the  _person_  we're dealing with. That information might even be more vital once we go to Guthrie."

"Okay, I'll call her when I get the chance," Dean said. "Let's go."

They walked out of the bar, Tracee following after him. Sam was already in the front seat of the Impala, so Tracee had to open her own door. Dean went around to the driver's side and quickly climbed in. As expected, his brother didn't even glance up from the file in his lap. More than likely, he was going to be brooding the entire way there, which meant no tunes. Sam would only keep turning off the radio until eventually they would just slap at each other's hands, and Dean wasn't feeling up to that. So he started up the car, not bothering to touch the radio, wondering how he was going to pass the time.

Fifteen minutes into the drive, and Dean had become bored. After given directions to the quickest route to Guthrie, Tracee had fallen silent, so she hadn't been a source to amuse himself with. Dean tapped on the steering wheel, feeling himself hum. This trip was looking to be a long one despite how much pressure he put on the gas. "… baby, I remember… The way you used to look at me and say… Promises never last  _forever_ …" he sang, not realizing it had been out loud.

"You're kidding, right?" Sam's voice broke through the acapella solo, and Dean abruptly snapped his mouth shut. In the back, Tracee snorted in amusement.

"You were really  _feeling_  it, too," she commented. Dean felt heat instantly surge to his cheeks as the tiny tank continued to laugh. Sam thought the whole thing was amusing, too, since the grin on his face had yet to disappear as he stared down at the file in his lap. He glowered in embarrassment as he threw a 'shut up, Trace' behind him. Tracee, of course, did not listen to him. "Oh my God! Wasn't that NSYNC? I didn't know you were a fan of Justin!"

"I'm not!" Dean denied, hotly. "I heard the song somewhere! I can't get it outta my head—I don't know! Just-Just shut up!" Tracee still giggled while his brother snickered. "Just drop it okay? What do we got?"

"Andrew Gallagher," Sam began. "Born in '83, like me. Lost his mother in a nursery fire exactly six months later, also like me."

"Did his father also take him on the road and teach him to hunt supernatural creatures like you?" Tracee questioned, all sense of humor gone. "Did he rebel against that lifestyle and go to college like you? Does he have an amazing brother like you? Does he have cute dimples like you? Is he tall like you?" Sam craned his head to look at his sulky girlfriend. Dean also turned his eyes from the road for just a moment, wondering why she had asked those questions. "Oh," she gave a pretty, fake smile. "I was just trying to see if there were more similarities since you seem so keen on finding them yourself." Her smile dropped, and she folded her arms over her chest. Dean turned his eyes back to the road ahead, getting her point. Sam must have gotten it, too, because although he kept his eyes on her, he didn't give her a response. "Now, let's focus on the important facts and find this guy. How do we do that, Sam?"

His brother, obviously contrite, shifted back in his seat, returning his gaze to the file. He swallowed once before opening his mouth. "I don't really know. He,  _uh_ , doesn't have a current address. There's not a current place of employment either. All of his bills are not paid," Sam answered. "Phone, credit, utilities—and there's no collection flags in the system. But there's a work address from his last W-2, about a year ago, so let's start there."

"About a year ago…?" Tracee repeated. She hummed in thought. "Okay, so what are we going to be this time?"

"Probably lawyers," Dean said. "If this guy doesn't have a place, or a job, he might need money. We might be able to lure him out by saying he's inherited something from a distant relative."

"Clever," she complimented. "Hopefully, he appears quickly."

 

0-0

 

It was a waiting game. They had come to town, checked into a motel, and then went to this guy's last place of employment. From there, they had learned of Andrew's mode of transportation—a wicked van with a hot chick, riding a polar bear. Like the waitress had told them, the vehicle had been hard to miss. Not that he would ever trade his Baby, but the guy had a pretty sweet ride. Sam had scowled at the image, while Tracee had chosen not to comment at all. She had only hummed, an indicator that she had begun to think critically. She wouldn't say anything until she came up with a theory, though, so it might be awhile until she made any sort of comment about the suspect.

Dean glanced at his brother, who had been focused on the van ever since they had spotted it. He had been quiet ever since they had come to town, but now he was sporting his Bitchface. "What's wrong?" Dean asked. The frown on Sam's face deepened as he shook his head. "Dude, it looks like you're sucking on a lemon. What's going on?" Sam breathed deeply through his nose. He turned his head again, eyes glancing towards the back seat. Tracee, seemingly not noticing the exchange, kept her eyes on the van across the street.

"This Andrew Gallagher," he began. "He's the second guy like this we've found, Dean. Demon came to them when they were kids, and now they're killing people."

"We don't know what Andrew Gallagher is, okay? The guy could be innocent," Dean replied.

"My visions haven't been wrong yet," Sam stated.

"What's your point?"

"My point is…  _I'm_  one of them." Dean sighed, feeling himself rolling his eyes. Tracee had been right. Of course his brother would keep trying to compare himself with these psychics they ran into. He just couldn't help himself, it appeared. "Dean, the Demon said that he had plans for me and children like me. Maybe this is his plan. Maybe we're all a bunch of psychic freaks. Maybe we're all supposed to be-"

"What?  _Killers_?" Dean interrupted. His brother gave a cut nod. "So, the Demon wants you out there, killing people with your minds? Is that it?" Sam nodded again, causing Dean to shake his head. "Give me a break, Sam! We met this bastard already. Clearly it's not a low-level demon. Top-tier—Capital friggin' D, Sam—that's what we're dealing with. You honestly think something so-so mediocre like getting humans to kill is the grand scheme of things?" His brother lowered his gaze to his lap. "If this Gallagher guy is killing, then he's doing it because he decided to do it. There's no outside force shaping his decision. If he kills anyone innocent, he's done—simple as that. No need to think you're  _anything_  like him."

"Really…? Because I'm pretty sure I'm already a killer, too…" Sam muttered.

"We're all killers here, Sam," Dean retorted. "The difference is… We're not killing the innocent. That abusive asshole that Max killed wasn't innocent, and we stopped him from killing anyone else. Hell, the guy in your vision might not be innocent—we don't know yet, so pipe down on that correlation of the Demon coming to infants and them becoming bloodthirsty killers, alright? We don't know a thing about this guy yet. Let's find out more information first before making assumptions." Sam didn't respond, and for a moment, the car was quiet.

"I see him," Tracee's voice cut through the silence. Dean turned his eyes back to the van, but didn't see anyone that looked like the guy in the picture ID. Seemingly noticing, Tracee tapped his shoulder, and then pointed. Following her finger, his eyes came across their suspect. He wore sweats and a long satin robe with dragons sewed in. He was walking down the sidewalk. He stopped a guy and spoke to him, eventually walking away with the other guy's coffee. Dean furrowed his brow because of that exchange. What coffee drinker would be so willing to give away their hot beverage? He continued to watch Andrew as he made his way towards his van. He stopped and shook hands with an older black man, hair visibly grey from his vantage point.

"That's him—the older guy," Sam said. "That's him! That's the shooter—same outfit, I think."

"Okay, you and Trace keep on him, and I'll stick with Andy," Dean said. "Go."

"Yes, sir," Tracee replied, and then opened the door.

Dean watched her and his brother walk across the street to follow after the man. Hand in hand, they trailed behind him. Clenching his jaw, Dean shifted his focus on Andrew. The guy got into his van. A few seconds later, he pulled off. Dean turned the key in the ignition, and began to follow after the dark vehicle. He shook his head, keeping his sights on the van at all times. Something about this guy didn't match with what Sam had told him. From what he had seen from the guy, Andrew hadn't seemed like the murdering type. Too laid back, to be honest, like he didn't have a care in the world.

"Oh, right," Dean muttered. Keeping one hand on the wheel, he reached inside his jacket pocket to pull out his cell phone. He now had the opportunity to find out more. Because Sam was with Tracee at the moment, he didn't need to worry about his eavesdropping little brother. He flipped open his phone, and immediately dialed the number he had recently memorized. Pressing the phone to his ear, he listened to the ringing, waiting for the line to pick up. He sat through four rings before he heard the line connect.

" _Who is this? What do you want_?" Cassie answered, sounding rushed and distracted. Dean found himself smirking. She had never been one for proper greeting when she had been anxious about something. He had called her several times back when… well, back then she had been studying when he had called her, so he knew now that she must be fretting over her work since she didn't need to study for school anymore.

"Good to hear from you, too, Cassie," Dean replied, voice light with teasing intent.

"…  _Dean_ ," she nearly whispered. There was a pause on her end, and then he could almost sense her shaking her head, maybe snapping back to reality. " _I'm at work, on a deadline, make it quick_."

"I'm sorry that I caught you at a bad time, but long story short, me, Sam, and Trace managed to come across one of the names that I gave you," Dean explained. "Andrew Gallagher—I was wondering if you had a chance to look into him yet."

"…  _Gallagher_?  _Give me a second_ ," Cassie said. Papers rustling could be heard, along with the opening and closing of a drawer. " _Right—he's homeless and jobless, so I didn't want to spend an entire weekend trying to find him. I think he still lives Guthrie, though_."

"Yeah, I'm actually tailing him right now," Dean told her. "Do you know anything about him?"

" _He's the ultimate slacker, Dean_ ," she said. " _He breezed his way through high school with below average grades. He's been caught multiple times with weed in his possession, and he's never charged with anything. He didn't go to college. He's only had two jobs in his life—both not lasting very long. I talked to this girl—with a Y—he's last employer, and she told me that he's smart, but doesn't apply himself or commit to pretty much anything. He's just… there, to be honest_."

"With a Y…?" Dean questioned.

" _Oh, no, her name's actually Tracey, but I called her that in my head so I wouldn't get_ our _Tracee confused with her when I was writing down my notes_." Dean nodded his head. That had been the name of the blonde waitress.

"So you… don't think this guy's dangerous?"

" _No, he's unambitious. Unambitious people tend to keep to themselves_ ," Cassie answered. " _Even if_ …" Her voice dropped down to a whisper. " _Even if he's gained some sorta psychic power, he probably would only use it for his personal gain—like knowing the numbers for the next jackpot_." To be honest, Dean had gotten that impression from the guy, too. From the way he carried himself, Andrew Gallagher hadn't seemed like a cold-blooded killer. He wished Sam could see it, too. " _Did you already find out what he can do_?"

" _Nah_ , we just got into town," Dean answered.

" _How'd you find him_?" Cassie asked.

" _Uh_ … Sam had a vision that brought us here, but we don't know anything yet," he stated. "So we're not sure how to play this."

" _Well… I've got to go, but be careful_ ," Cassie said. " _Tracee told me what Sam's visions are usually like. Just because I don't find this guy dangerous, doesn't mean he can't be provoked into using his powers to cause harm_."

"Yeah, I'll be careful," Dean told her. "You, too—be careful with that other guy when you get around to him."

" _I can take care of myself_ ," she responded. It might have been his imagination, but Dean could hear the sound of her smiling.

"Don't I know it," he said, a grin forming on his face. "And,  _uh_ , hey… Good luck with your deadline."

" _Thanks, good luck with your… mission. Talk to you later_."

"Bye, Cassie."

The line disconnected, leaving Dean to remove his phone from his ear. Okay, so based off of his own observations and Cassie's opinions, it was becoming more likely that Andrew was an a-okay type of guy. But, of course, that didn't make any sense. The whole reason they had come to this town in the first place had been because of Sam's vision. This guy was the only psychic in town that had experienced a nursery fire, so he had to be the one from the vision. Right? Like his brother had said before, his visions hadn't been wrong so far. They had managed to stop a few, but…

Before Dean could ponder further, he noticed that the van in front of him suddenly halt. He grit his teeth as he braked his own vehicle. Eyes narrowed, Dean watched Andrew step out of his van, and then walk towards the Impala. Frowning, he took his handgun from seat beside him and tucked it inside his jacket. Andrew came closer with a grin on his face. "Hey!" he greeted, casually. Dean put on a smile and nodded his head to return the greeting. "This is a cherry ride," Andrew complimented, hands coming down to clamp around the open window.

"… Yeah, thanks," Dean said, mildly suspicious by the other man's behavior.

"Man, you know, '67—Impala's best year, if you ask me," Andrew remarked, seemingly in awe of the dark beauty. Huh. The guy had good taste. He probably wasn't so bad, after all. "This is a serious classic." Dean released his hold on his gun. Yeah, he wasn't dangerous.

"Yeah, you know, I just rebuilt her, too," he stated, pride swelling. "Can't let a car like this one go."

"Damn straight!" Andrew agreed with gusto. Dean chuckled at his enthusiasm. Not everyone could be as lucky to have a ride like this, after all. "Hey, can I have it?"

"Sure, man," he replied, moving to get out of the Impala. Andrew stepped away, only to take Dean's place in the driver's seat. "Hop right in there." He shut the door behind the cool dude. "There you go!" Andrew grinned at him, and then told him to take it easy. Seconds later, he pulled off, going around the van, and then around the corner. Dean watched, feeling the smile slowly fade. His eyebrows furrowed as realization set in. Some stranger had just taken off with his Baby. He had  _willingly_  let some stranger take off with his Baby. "What the fuck?!"

 

0-0

 

The warmth Sam felt from Tracee's right hand was extremely helpful. The more time they had spent following after the older man, the more he realized that today was the day. His vision was set to happen any minute now, and it was causing his nerves to stretch. His girlfriend, silent in her following, had been enough to keep him relatively calm despite the impeding threat on someone's life. Sam took a deep breath as the man suddenly halted and pulled his cell phone from his pocket. He and Tracee also came to a stop, but they were too far away to hear anything.

Sam took the opportunity to look around. With a start, he realized that his current surroundings were the same as his vision. "It's happening," he said out loud. Tracee nodded her head, and then released her hold on him. Their eyes exchanged a silent agreement before she turned and continued to follow the older man. Sam headed across the street towards the recognized store. If he could just prevent the man from entering the shop in the first place, that would keep him from danger. Just like with Max's uncle. He opened the door, eyes darting around. He noticed and recognized a man reading a magazine. He had been in his latest vision. He had been shot first, so Sam had come to the right place.

Now he just had to find a means to keep the shooter out. Sam's scanned, looking for something. Oh, places like this—that sold guns in the first place—usually had obvious alarm systems to deter would-be robbers. He just had to find and trip it. Sam turned, and almost immediately spotted the alarm system. Reaching up, he triggered the alarm. The obnoxious ringing blared through unseen speakers, causing the occupants of the store to stop whatever they were doing. Sam didn't stick around long enough for the fingers to start pointing.

He exited the shop only to see the shooter from his vision approach. The man furrowed his eyebrow, seemingly confused, but then turned and walked away in the opposite direction. Sam breathed a sigh of relief as Tracee came to a stop in front of the store's steps. He walked down as she turned her eyes to him. "You did it," she stated. Sam sighed again and nodded his head. Then he heard the familiar sound of the Impala. He shifted his eyes to the road, expecting to see his brother coming, but the car drove right by with Andy in the driver seat. Dean was nowhere in sight. "Wasn't that…?! Where's Dean?!" Tracee quickly pulled her cell phone from the back pocket of her jeans. She dialed and held the phone to her ear.

After a moment, Tracee sharply pulled the phone away because Dean's loud voice was shouting. Looking more than a little annoyed, his girlfriend rolled her eyes. Sam quickly took the phone from her extended hand, and then pressed it against his own ear. "Dean, what the hell? Andy's got the Impala!"

" _I_  know!" Dean grumbled, irritated. " _He just sorta asked me for it, and I-I let him take it_!"

"You  _what_?!" Sam questioned, astonished. His brother had rarely let him drive it. Giving it away to a stranger was just unheard of.

" _He full on Obi-wan'd me_!" Dean yelled. " _It's_ mind control _, man_!"

Mind control. Of course. That made sense. With Max, he had been moving objects around in order to kill. But Andy's victim seemed to take the actions on his own. The mind control must have happened when they came into contact with each other earlier. Luckily, they stopped it from happening this time. Sam's eyes shifted to locate the older man, only to widen in terror as he stepped out into oncoming traffic. A large bus slammed right into the man's body. At that speed, the impact must have killed him instantly. A choked gasp burst from his lips. Sam was faintly aware that his brother demanded to know what had just happened. But he couldn't find the words.

The phone was taken from his hand as he continued to stare at the awful sight in front of him. Right in front of him. He could have stopped that. He should have been able to prevent the man's death. But… But… The sound of Tracee's phone snapped him out of it. He slowly turned to look at her as she slid her phone back into her pocket. "Tracee, I… I kept him out of the gun store. I thought he was okay." She frowned, stepping closer to him. Sam dropped his gaze to the ground and shook his head. He had failed, and some innocent guy had paid the price. "I should've stayed-"

"Samuel, look at me," Tracee cut in. Sam clenched his teeth, finding himself unable to. " _Look_  at me," she insisted. He swallowed hard, and gradually he lifted his gaze to meet her brown eyes. "We tried. We stopped your vision from happening, but whoever this person is lurked in the shadows and saw that the original plan failed, and so another plan went into effect and we had  _no way_  of knowing. We can't save everyone, especially if the enemy is persistent. The only thing we can do—the only thing we should be focusing on right now—is finding this person and stopping him. Okay?"

Sam squeezed his eyes shut, letting her words sink in. Right. This wasn't the moment to feel sorry for himself. This wasn't the time to beat himself up over something out of his hands. They had to find him so that another death wouldn't happen. "… Okay," he said through clenched teeth. He opened his eyes, and then nodded his head. "Okay. We find this guy. That's our first priority right now."

"Okay," Tracee repeated. "Okay, stay here. Dean's on his way. I'm going to see if I can find out who the victim is." She turned to go, but hesitated. Frowning, she wrapped her arms around him, and Sam felt himself relaxing, not realizing he had still been tense. "It's going to be okay. We'll stop him." His arms came around her as well, returning he embrace.  _Thank you_ , he thought, pressing his lips to the top of her head. He needed this. After a moment or two, Tracee released him, and then turned to head down the sidewalk.

After some time had passed, Dean had appeared. A few minutes of explaining later, and Tracee had come back to tell what she had learned. The man had been a doctor, whose public had been good. No one had anything bad to say about the man. Based on that, there should have been no reason why he had died, and yet Andy had been so determined to make sure it had happened. Sam shook his head as he moved. The thought of Andy getting away with it—he couldn't let it happen.

Finally, they turned the corner, and Dean darted away from him, exclaiming in glee. The three of them had begun walking around, looking for the missing Impala. Apparently, his brother had found it. Actually, it was a relief to see the car undamaged. "Thank God! Oh, I'm sorry, Baby! I'll never leave you again!" his brother declared. Sam tried not to roll his eyes at the display. He was half surprised Dean hadn't attempted to hug his vehicle. "At least he left the keys in it."

"Yeah, real Samaritan, this guy," Sam scoffed. Tracee rushed forward, sticking half her body through the window, hands frantically searching the backseat.

"My iPod is still here!" she squealed in triumph, holding up the musical device. "Maybe I won't kill him for taking our shit, after all."

" _That's_  the reason?" Dean asked her incredulously as she wiggled her way out of the open window.

"My iPod has become an extension of  _my life_ , Dean!" Tracee retorted.

Rolling his eyes at the dramatics of the tiny woman, Dean shifted his focus on Sam. "Anyway…! It looks like he can't work his mojo by twitching his nose," he stated. "He's got to use verbal commands."

"The doctor had just gotten off his cell phone when he stepped in front of that bus," Sam stated. "Andy must've called him or something."

"… I don't know, maybe," Dean muttered.

"Beg your pardon?" Sam asked, furrowing his brow.

"I don't know, Sam. Maybe this isn't our guy, after all."

"Dean, you had O.J. convicted before he got out of his white bronco!" Sam pointed out. "But you had doubts about  _this_?"

"He just doesn't seem the stone-cold killer type, that's all," Dean retorted. "And O.J. was guilty! Don't look at me like that, Trace!"

"Either way, how are we gonna track this guy down?"

"… Not a problem."

After finding and breaking into Andy's vehicle, the three of them had decided to lay in wait for the psychic to return. Dean had been right in his assessment of the van/home not being a serial killer's lair. Honestly, it had been weird to find the inside of Andy's van relatively not of the bad variety. Still, there had been some books inside that someone of his… image should not have been reading. Obviously, though, the guy's choice of reading led Sam to believe that they were dealing with an intelligent psychic. But the overly large bong had been a contradiction. He had a hard time wrapping his head around what was real with this guy. In the end, it didn't really matter. Andy murdered an innocent man, and no amount of looking into the doctor had changed that reality.

"… What I don't get is the motive," Sam mumbled. "I mean, the doctor was squeaky clean. Why would Andy waste him?"

"I've been trying to figure that out, too," Tracee said from her position behind him. She had been quiet, not making any comment on what they had discovered in Andy's van. In regards to Andy, at least. She had remarked on how sexy Sam sounded when he said 'Wittgenstein.' His girlfriend was definitely weird. But other than that, not a peep. She must have been thinking critically about this case. "That interaction we saw between the two of them seemed harmless. Friendly. Maybe it was an act, but…" she trailed off, humming to herself.

"Maybe it's not Andy," Dean suggested.

"Dude, enough…!" Sam retorted. "The doctor was mind-controlled in front of a bus. Andy just  _happens_  to have the power of mind control. You do the math."

"I just don't think the guy's got it in him, that's all."

"Well, how the hell do you  _know_? I mean, why are you bending over backwards to defend him?" Sam questioned. Dean turned away, line of sight focused outside the driver side window. Sam blinked twice at the silent answer. "You know something, don't you? How did you-? What do you know, Dean?!"

"Nothing, man!" he snapped. "That's exactly the point I'm trying to make! We don't know anything except that he likes to get high and read books! That's all we know, Sam! Trace, back me up here." Both brother twisted in their seats to get the Slayer's opinion on the case. Like many times before, her words would be the tiebreaker. Good thing they weren't traveling around with four people, or arguments would never stop. Tracee hummed lightly before shifting her attention towards them.

"The murder weapon is obvious," she stated. Dean clicked his tongue while Sam flashed him a victory look. "However, the other evidence we have so far is circumstantial. We haven't actually seen Blake use his powers to cause death." The brothers' expressions switched. Dean even had the nerve to stick out his tongue. "At this point, it doesn't matter which opinion is right, though. Blake is still our primary suspect, and he needs to be confronted in order to proceed with the case."

"HEY!" Sam jumped, and sharply turned his head. Their primary suspect had suddenly appeared outside the Impala, hands clamped down on the open window. He appeared quite irritated as he glared at Sam. "You think I haven't seen you three?!  _Why are you following me_?"

"Well, we're lawyers," Sam lied easily. "See, a relative of yours has passed-"

"Tell  _the truth_!" Andy commanded.

"That's what I'm trying-"

"We're demon hunters," Dean interrupted. Sam shifted his focus on his brother, surprised and a little affronted that he had blurted out the truth. Sam, incredulous, exclaimed his brother's name. Dean ignored him and opened his mouth again. "We hunt all kinds of things actually. Things your worst nightmares wouldn't even touch. Sam, here, he's my brother—a psychic like you, but not exactly."

"Dean, shut up!" Sam told him.

"I'm trying…!" Casually, his brother gestured towards the back with a smile plastered on his face. "Her, back there—Slayer. A pretty awesome one. She's the nightmare your nightmares are afraid of. And I hope to hell we can keep protecting her so that she doesn't end up like other Slayers." A pained groan from the backseat caused Sam to turn his head. Said Slayer wore a grimace on her face as her left palm pressed against her left temple.

"Our lives are, at times, chaotic and dangerous," Tracee blurted out. "But I'm having the best time—more fun than I've ever had." She squeezed her eyes shut, seemingly choking on words. "I ha-have two of the most amazing people in my li-life, and I pray to God they don't ever leave me, too. I have to keep them safe from all the threats that come with this life, including themselves." Sam stared at his girlfriend, startled by the truths that came from her mouth. Is that what she actually…?

"Okay, you know what?" Andy caught his attention again before he could think about her words further. "Just  _leave me alone_!" Dean immediately agreed, and then Andy walked off. Both Dean and Tracee slumped in their seats, panting heavily. Sam wanted to stay and comfort them, but hopefully they would be fine while he went after Andy. He hurriedly opened the door and got out of the car, following after the primary suspect. Realizing it, Andy turned holding his hands up. "What are you doing?" He appeared surprised as he backed up. "Look, I-I said  _leave me alone_!" Sam shook his head and continued to follow. "Get out of here! Just  _start driving and never stop_!"

"Doesn't seem to work on me, Andy," Sam stated, spreading his arms wide as though leaving himself vulnerable. The guy's expression dropped in realization. Sam took the opportunity to slam him against a nearby fence. "You can make people do things, can't you? You make tell them what to think."

"Th-That's crazy!" Andy denied with a nervous—maybe fearful—laugh. Sam's grip on his jacket increased as he pressed the psychic harder against the metal fence. He heard the doors of the Impala opening and closing, which made him look back. Dean and Tracee had gotten out of the car and attempted to approach. Sam held his hand out, palm facing them, silently telling them not to come closer. With any luck, distance would stop them from being controlled again. Catching his intention, they both halted.

"It all started about a year ago, didn't it?" Sam asked, turning his focus back on the shorter man. "After you turned twenty two." Andy's eyes widened, clearly surprised. "It was little stuff, at first, and then you started getting better at controlling it."

"H-How do you know all this?"

"Cuz the same thing happened to me, Andy," Sam told him. "My mom died in a fire, too. I have abilities, too. You see, we were targeted when we were six months old, and now we're suddenly psychic. The difference is I don't have a penchant for killing innocent people!" Andy's face scrunched up, but it had to be an act. "Why did you tell the doctor to walk in front of a bus?" Sam demanded to know. Flashes, along with images, suddenly blocked Andy from view. Groaning, Sam took his hand away from his fellow psychic. Was that… a woman? Pouring gasoline on herself? Trying to work through the pain, he tried focusing on Andy again. "Why'd you kill him?!"

"I didn't!" he protested.

The flashes came again, causing him to wince. Then a clear vision came through, along with blinding pain. An unknown woman at a gas station got a call on her cell phone, and then proceeded to light herself on fire. It would be another brutal murder. The vision ended with the sharpest pain, making Sam fall to his knees. "Samuel…!" He faintly heard Tracee's voice, but he did feel her hands on him. One hand running up and down his back while the other hand's fingers massaged at his scalp. "What did you  _do_?!"

"I didn't do anything!" Andy exclaimed.

"Sammy, what did you see?" Dean asked. Sam forced his eyes open, but the sunlight hurt. Clenching his jaw, he tried his best to explain the vision. Andy sputtered in shock, uneasily asking questions. Tracee snapped at him to shut his mouth, which he instantly did. "When does all that happen?"

"I don't know," Sam answered, trying to stand. It took help from both Dean and Tracee for him to stand properly. "As long as we keep our eyes on this son of a bitch, he can't hurt her."

"I didn't hurt anybody!"

"Yeah, not  _yet_ ," Sam snarled, glaring. Suddenly, sirens wailed, temporarily distracting him. A firetruck had sped pass the alley. He and his brother exchanged a look. "Go," he told him. "Me and Tracee will stay here." Dean nodded and hurried back to the Impala. Andy tried to leave, but Tracee pressed a hand to his chest. "No, not you. You're staying with us."

"And if you even  _think_  about using that mind trick on me again, I'm going to  _break_  you," Tracee hissed out, voiced laced in her British accent. Andy threw his hands up in surrender. Smart of him to believe her. "Don't move, Blake."

"… It's Andy."

Ignoring him, Tracee began moving. Back and forth, she paced with her arms crossed. She seemed really agitated. Sam watched her as the pain in his head ebbed away. Eventually, the throbbing completely stopped, and he could see clearly now. He ran fingers through his hair, gaze still on his girlfriend. She abruptly stopped her pacing, and then pulled her phone out of her pocket. She flipped it open and pressed it against her ear. During her pacing, she had moved further away, and so Sam couldn't hear the ensuing conversation. She spoke with someone for a couple of minutes before the cell phone was snapped shut. Then she made her way back over to them.

"Dean said he got there too late. Just like you said, a set herself on fire at a gas station," Tracee announced. "It happened only a few minutes before he arrived. A witness saw her take a call before she starting pouring the gas on herself."

"… So you're saying it can't be Andy?"

"It can't be. We were with him this whole time," Tracee said with a nod of her head. Sam pressed his lips together. So there was another psychic running around killing people? Great. But why hadn't there been any other person that popped up in Ash's search? "Dean's looking further into it. He'll come back here once he has something that we can work with." She tucked her phone back into her pocket.

"… Hey, Tracee?"

"Not right now, Samuel," she said, turning away.

"You don't think we should-"

"I said not right now!" Tracee cut in louder than necessary, and then she walked away from him.

Sam couldn't help but feel disappointed… and a little hurt, too. They were not strangers to talking things out and coming to understandings. They willingly talked things out. He enjoyed that—how easy it was. But now she had… spurned him. It wasn't like her. She couldn't have been embarrassed about those truths, could she? No, on more than one occasion, she had declared her affections. Or maybe it had been the last thing she had said, about saving them from themselves. That had been… concerning. Because from where he was standing, it had meant that on some level… she feared him. She feared what he could do. And now that he thought about it, maybe that's why she suggested he stop using his other abilities. See, thoughts like that happened because there was no talking—no understanding. Sam needed to talk to her about this.

He needed it.

" _Oooh_ , that looked like a lover's spat," Andy remarked. Sam glared at him, not amused in the least. "Shutting up now."

"Good call."

 

0-0


	28. Break & Revelation

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I may or may not have been watching Criminal Minds as I wrote this chapter.

Her legs were beginning to ache. She probably should just sit down and take her nails away from her neck. However, that had been a hard thing to accomplishment right now. Too many thoughts swirled in her mind, and it made her anxious. She had to stop, though. If her nails dug any deeper, there would be blood. With a long sigh, Tracee shut her eyes and shifted her left hand from the skin of her neck. Her fingers reached up to pinch the bridge of her nose. This entire bloody case was becoming increasingly frustrating. The more time they spent in Guthrie, the more things didn't make sense. In addition, the headache she had gotten was only now starting to fade.

Tracee resumed pacing, glancing over to Andrew Gallagher. He continued speaking with Sam, unaware of her mild glare. It hadn't helped things when he had used his ability to have her speak truthfully. In front of the Winchesters, no less. So now, she had to deal with hurt puppy eyes every so often. Admittedly, Tracee knew she was at fault for that. She had, after all, rejected his need to talk. That had been something she had never done. But she hadn't wanted to talk about it. She hadn't wanted to think about it, really. Not now. She, herself, couldn't come up with a reason, though. Maybe later, but now, she couldn't focus on that.

She needed to focus on this peculiar case. They had come to this town because of Sam's vision. Based off his past premonitions, excluding the ones about her, this particular psychic had something to do with the Demon. First Max in Saginaw. Then Rosie in Salvation. And now whoever this psychic was in Guthrie. The common denominator between them had been the Demon. Andrew had a clear connection as well, but the premonition hadn't been about him. It should have been, but he had a solid alibi. His name had popped up in the nationwide search. He had the ability of forcing someone to commit suicide. He also had seemed more than cordial with the first victim. Andrew had the means, opportunity, and the connection, and yet he hadn't had the motive.

So they were back to square one. They had to find and track down an unknown subject, who had already killed two people. No way around it—they would have to start looking at the victims in depth. Now that there were two bodies, a clear motivation could be found. Once that happened, they should be able to find him. She just needed Dean to come back with information on the second victim to get insight on the true psychic killer.

Tracee halted, and then breathed deeply again. Okay, enough with the pacing. Her movements had led her away from the two men, and she could no longer see them. She turned, and headed back over to where they had chosen to sit down. They were behind a rusted vehicle. Just as she was about to come around the corner, she clearly heard Sam's voice. "… They're not all  _death visions_ ,"he said. "Having this ability made it so I met my girlfriend. If I didn't have this, I probably would have never knew she existed."

"That Slayer chick? That's what your brother called her, right?" Andrew questioned. "What does that mean? Could she—could she  _actually_  break me? Like physically? I mean, she's so small, but I think I'm afraid of her."

"Oh, yeah," Sam answered. Tracee pressed her lips together, feeling heart rush to her cheeks. She had caught the pride that had trickled into his voice. "She's,  _uh_ , pretty strong. But you don't have to be afraid, though. It's probably an instinctive prey versus predator thing."

"… That is… even more terrifying." Sam only chuckled. "Did you save her? Stop your vision from happening?"

"No, it wasn't like that. I doubt she needs saving actually," Sam said. "But anyway, what I don't get is why you still live in a van. You could have anything you want with a power like yours."

"Yeah, but I-I got everything I need," Andrew stated.

"So you're really not a killer, huh?"

"That's what I've been trying to tell you," he said, laughing.

Tracee shuddered internally. Andrew clearly thought his ability was harmless. The way he used it was harmless, but… It had felt horrible to her. It had been as though claws dung into her very nerves to force an action. It had been painful. Had Dean felt that as well? Had this guy's other puppets felt the same, or had it just been her? Perhaps the Slayer in her had known to try and fight back, which had made it so painful. As long as Andrew didn't use his ability on her again, she could tolerate him for the duration of the case. Admittedly, she still didn't know if this was a 'help me' or 'hurt me' type of psychic.

The familiar rumble of the Impala's engine caused Tracee to turn her head. Dean came to a stop right behind her as she completely faced the vehicle. He shut off the car, and then quickly climbed out. "What'd you bring me?" she asked as she felt the two psychics come up behind her. Her question came out less enthused than normal, and Dean looked her strangely because of it—narrowed eyes and all that. Tracee scratched at the side of neck. "Come on, Dean, the class is waiting."

"Victim's name was Holly Beckett," he announced. "Forty-one. Single. Called Ash on the way over here. He came up with a little something. Apparently Holly Beckett gave birth when she was eighteen years old. Back in 1983—same day you were born, Andy."

"Andy, were you  _adopted_?" Sam questioned.

"Well, yeah," Andrew shrugged.

"Are you suggesting this woman is his biological mother?" Tracee asked. "I don't mean to be indifferent towards this new information, I'm sure Blake here is freaking out a little, aren't you, Blake?" She glanced at the man on her right to see that his mouth was opening and closing, but words were clearly failing. "But what is the relevance?" She shifted her full attention back to Dean.

"I don't know," he stated. "She may be Andy's real mom, and may  _lead_  us to the relevance. Thing is, we can't get a confirmation. I already tried to get a copy of the birth records, but they're hard copy only—sealed in the county office."

"Well, screw that," Andrew remarked.

Tracee understood his intention, and her body cringed in response. However, she also understood that they could be on a time limit. It hadn't been long between the two kills. This other psychic could potentially go on a spree. If the second victim truly had been Andrew's biological mother, this other psychic could be targeting anyone with a connection to him. Anyone Andrew had come into contact with could be in danger, really. They didn't have much time to waste. Still… She hadn't wanted too many people being forced to do something at this guy's whims. "We'll go after hours," Tracee stated. "There might be one or two people there. That's when you can use your mind thing. Now, we're still keeping an eye on you. Just in case. So you're coming with us. Any questions?" Andrew opened his mouth. "Good." He snapped it shut. "Don't sit next to me."

Without another word, Tracee moved around the car to get in the backseat. It took a beat, but the three men followed, all climbing into the car. Andrew wisely took the passenger seat while Sam sat next to her. She could feel his eyes on her, but she stubbornly kept her gaze focused outside the window. As Dean started up the Impala, she could hear Sam release a heavy sigh. Obviously, Tracee felt bad about it, but what good would talking be at this point if her own thoughts hadn't been sorted through? No, it would better after the case closed.

She should have realized that Sam wouldn't just take that, though. As soon as the car had stopped in front of their motel room, he had wrapped his fingers around her right wrist and had told Dean and Andrew to go on ahead. Tracee scowled as she watched the door to their motel room shut, leaving her completely alone with her adamant lover. His hand slowly slid way from her wrist. She almost immediately folded her arms. "Tracee," he began. "… You're really doing this?"

"I'm not doing anything," Tracee replied calmly.

"Really?" Sam's voice rose higher in pitch. It had almost been a squeak. Tracee mentally kicked herself, knowing an argument could not be avoided now. "Because you haven't looked me in the eye for the past hour!"

"You're being dramatic," she retorted.

"Am I?!" Sam questioned hotly. "Well, excuse me for feeling some type of way when my girlfriend won't even talk to me!"

"I  _said_  we'd talk later," Tracee said, finally turning to look at him.

"Well,  _when_  then?! Because from where I'm standing, you don't  _want_  to! It's like you're going to come up with some excuse so we won't have to! I get enough of that from Dean. I-I can't take it from you, too!" he said. Tracee forced herself not to roll her eyes. She understood clearly what Dean would go through. Sam could be annoyingly persistent. She bit down on her lower lip. "Now, obviously… what happened with Andy is the cause, so just-just talk to me! Are… Are you afraid of me?"

"What?" Tracee asked, unable to hold back her incredulity. " _Afraid_  of you? You're  _reaching_ , Sam!"

"Well, what am I supposed to think? Right after you said that you had to save us from  _ourselves_ , you shut down! The only reason I can think why you would do that is because you don't want us to know that you're afraid of us… that you're afraid of me and my powers." Tracee could only stare at him in perplexed disbelief. After all they had been through, he had come to  _that_  conclusion? Afraid of his  _powers_? His visions didn't matter to her in the short term, but she couldn't deny that she dreaded when he had them. Inevitably, once a vision happened, Sam would begin a downward spiral, causing him to act irresponsibly.

"You know what? I can't—I literally cannot with you right now!" Tracee hurriedly turned and opened the car door. Aghast, Sam called her name, but she was already slamming the door shut behind her. Shit. What was happening? Why was she being so defensive and closed off about this? Because she couldn't give him what he wanted? Answers? Oh, God… She needed to shake this off. She needed to get away and let this pass. Come back with a clear head, and then maybe they could talk. Not now. It felt as though her thoughts were compressing, and it would only be a matter of time before they exploded viciously if she didn't have the time to think it through. Just as she was about to walk off, Sam grabbed her forearm, spinning her around to face him.

"Tracee, don't walk away from this!" he nearly shouted. " _Please_ …! We  _have_  to talk! I can't just sit around, thinking that you're-"

"What?  _Afraid_  of you?!" Tracee snatched back her arm. "Because you seem so bloody keen on wanting that!"

" _Are_  you? I mean, you haven't given me a straight answer yet! Just tell me! Is it my powers?"

"Your powers are irrelevant, Sam! It's what you do  _afterwards_  that has me worried!" Tracee blurted. His brows furrowed, clearly confused. "You stop thinking logically and-and go off on a tangent about how you're connected and chosen and the same as the people your visions are about! It drives me insane, Sam! Is that what you want to hear?! It's like you become this other person whenever you get these visions! Constantly comparing yourself to them, wondering if you're going to start killing innocent people, too, just because of a few similarities! You're not Max! You're not Blake! You're not whoever the fuck this is running around using his ability for evil! You're Samuel Winchester, but every time you get a vision, you try so hard to convince yourself otherwise! Eventually, you're going to do something  _stupid_ —something I can't protect you from, and then  _I'm going to lose you both_!"

Oh. The sudden revelation came with the realization that her vision had blurred.  _Oh_. Now that she had exclaimed her frustrations, what had happened had been obvious. She had developed real fear. Tracee next breath came out as a shudder. She lowered her gaze to the ground and swallowed hard. It made sense. The older Winchester had already almost died, and she hadn't been able to do a thing. The fear must have manifested back then.

"You're… You're eventually going to do something reckless that I can't stop, and I'm going to lose you because of it," Tracee continued. "Th-Then Dean is going to do something stupid in return, and I'm going to lose him, too… Just like my parents."

"Oh, God, Tracee…" Before she could respond, she felt his arms engulf her. Nearly whimpering, she melted into his embrace. As many times as they had hugged before, this time, it had felt like a need. An actual need to be encased in his arms. She rubbed her nose against his shirt, feeling it become damp with her tears. Her fingers gripped the back of his jacket as he squeezed her just right.

For a time, they had stood there, holding each other. Then finally, Sam's soothing back rubs halted before his hands slipped to grip her waist. Tracee sniffled as she reared back. Her gaze dropped to the ground again. "Tracee, I should have… I should have realized sooner. I'm so sorry," he said. Tracee sighed out, squeezing her eyes shut and shaking her head. He shouldn't be apologizing. She opened her mouth, prepared to tell him so, but Sam curled a finger under her chin, and tilted her head up to look him in the eye. "I  _am_. I'm sorry. I should have realized you were just effected by Dean almost dying. Now you're afraid we're gonna do something that you're powerless to stop, and… you'll be alone again. I get it."

"Samuel…" Tracee turned her head, but her lover merely turned it back. He stared deep into her eyes, and she swallowed hard because of the intensity. "I… I do care about you both, and I… I don't think I can handle losing you." The confession made it more tangible just how much she cared. Sam breathed deeply through his nose, and then his hands reached up to cup her cheeks. His thumbs slid underneath her eyes, wiping away the residue of tears.

"You're not gonna lose us," he said.

"You can't promise that."

"… No, I can't," Sam agreed slowly. "But I know that with you watching our backs, and us watching yours, our chances of survival have increased dramatically. We're going to survive. Together. I don't—we don't want to lose you either." Tracee bit her lower lip as his hands moved to her shoulders. "And… I have been acting stupid. You and Dean have been telling me for months, but I guess it took… all this to make me see. God, I hate seeing you cry."

"You think I like  _doing_  it?" Tracee stepped back, wiping at her face. She sniffled again. "Can we just… focus on the case now?"

"Yeah, sure… but I need to say something first," Sam stated. Tracee reached up to scratch her neck, but he stopped her hand mid-way. He sighed heavily through his nose, and with that same hand that stopped her, he pulled her jacket and shirt away from her neck. "I don't want you to keep worrying about that. Definitely not to a point where you're hurting yourself." He leaned forward, lips brushing against her skin. Tracee bit her lower lip to keep from gasping out a moan. His lips traced the scratches as he pulled her against his body. "You and Dean… don't have to worry anymore. This is the last time. No matter who we run into, no matter what we learn, I'm still me. I'm…" He sighed heavily, lifting his head to look her in the eye. "I promise. I'm not going to act or think impulsively anymore. You're right. It's not me."

"… I'm glad to hear it."

"So we're good now?"

"Real good."

Sam smiled, relieved by the response. His left hand lightly touched her right cheek. He tilted his head down, and Tracee met him half way, shutting her eyes. Their forehead kisses were so comforting. Not to worry, he had told her. It had been reassuring to hear him say it. She wished it hadn't gotten to this point, but better now than later. Maybe… he wouldn't freak out so bad like Dean expected once they told him John's parting words. Okay, this was good. Maybe good for them all in the long run. Sam reared back, and then pressed his lips to hers. "We've got a few hours until nightfall," he said. He kissed her again. "We could go somewhere for a while?"

"Are you tempting me, Samuel Winchester?" Tracee asked against his lips. She felt him grin before he pulled away.

"Just a date," he said. "Like a movie, or something?"

" _Hm_ … Very tempting, but I want to get ahead of this guy," she replied. "I think I might be able to find a location."

"How?"

"Now that there's two victims, we could use that to get addresses," Tracee explained.

"Right… Your criminology classes, I take it?" Sam questioned. She mirrored his earlier grin. He shook his head and chuckled. "Alright, but afterwards…?"

"Definitely," she told him. Her hand found his, and together, they walked to the door of their motel room. Upon entering, she saw that Dean was sitting on his bed, arms crossed, head turned away from the door. Andrew tried hard to look at anything but them. "You saw everything, didn't you?"

"No…!" Andrew denied.

"Ain't no shame in my game, Trace," Dean replied. Tracee rolled her eyes, but felt herself smiling. "Glad you two made up." He stood up, ignoring the way his brother cleared his throat. "So what do you got?"

"Not sure yet; need a map," she said. "Of just the downtown area if possible." Dean nodded his head and went over to a table littered with magazines and such. Tracee shifted her line of sight to Andrew. "I want to ask you a few questions, Blake. Darling, can you get me a marker?" Sam nodded his head, and then went over to their bags. "How close were you to the good doctor?"

" _Uh_ … he's been in my life for as far back as I remember," Andrew answered. "He's always been there for me—more than my own dad, actually. He is…  _was_  a really great guy. In the winter, he even let me crash at his place."

"So you were very close then?" Tracee clarified. The psychic nodded his head. " _Hm_ …"

"What are you thinking, Tracee?" Sam asked, handing her a black permanent marker.

"Assuming that this latest victim  _is_  your biological mother, and you can't be the real killer, I'm thinking that whoever is doing this is going after people you have a bond with."

"But I didn't know her," Andrew pointed out.

"Doesn't matter. You still share that bond, and if the killer found out, she would be made a target."

"But I don't understand why! Why would anyone want to go after people I have an obscure bond with?"

"One of two reasons," Tracee began slowly. "One: you are the final target. He's taunting you by taking out those close to you. He's doing it to cause fear, make you panic. Make it all the more sweeter when he finally kills you himself. His motivation would be that you wronged him somehow, unknowingly or not." Andrew gaped at her, mouth opening and closing several times, terrified by the concept. "Or… He's eliminating obstacles so he can have you for himself. Not to kill, but to bond. And that tells us it's not revenge, it's a delusion. He feels that he should be the only one in your life. Everyone else are distractions. Temporarily flings to keep you from him, so they needed to be taken out. Only one true bond will survive."

"That sounds like a crazy ex," Dean remarked, stepping away from the adjacent wall. Andrew had to sit down on the bed, furiously rubbing at his head. Those two reasons could be very overwhelming to a person like him, so his reaction had been expected. Tracee turned her attention to the older Winchester. Dean was admiring his work of putting the map up with tape. "What makes you so sure this killer's not a chick?"

"Because people are gay, Dean," she retorted.

"Hold on!  _I'm_  not…!" Andrew protested.

"Also, because these killings are planned in advance," Tracee continued, ignoring the indignant shriek. She uncapped the marker and moved towards the map on the wall. "The chances of the killer being a woman are like… one in a hundred."

"Why?"

"Because when a woman kills, it's usually an impulsive act—in the heat of the moment, self-defense, an accident," Sam spoke up. "And even when women kill purposely, usually the kill itself is clean. These murders were too messy—shotgun, impact with a bus, a fire started with gasoline. They were messy, but premeditated. Statistically speaking, it's a guy."

"Correct," Tracee complimented, making an 'X' on the map. She tapped her chin once before marking two more 'X's. "We're looking for a white male, probably in our age group—his twenties. This isn't a guy that would stick out in a crowd. He probably doesn't have a social life whatsoever, and it would be hard for him to form attachments. So he has nothing better to do all day except plan, brood, and stalk either out of revenge or jealousy."

"What are those?" Dean asked, gesturing to the 'X's on the map.

"These are the kill sites," Tracee said.

"But there's three of them. We've only got two victims."

"Yes, but the first victim was supposed to die here," Tracee stated, pointing to the shop's street location. She then dragged her finger across the map towards another X. "However, he ended up dying somewhere. The latest victim was killed about two miles away at the gas station. The murders occurred within a three mile radius of each other. So within this zone-" She made a circle around the marked spots. "-is where we'll find him."

"What makes you so sure?" Andrew asked.

"Because he didn't wait to hear about it," Sam stated. "Because of my vision, I stopped Dr. Jennings from into that shop and killing himself. But he walked in front of a bus a few minutes later. So this guy had to have been watching to make sure. When it failed, he just called and told him to kill himself another way. Most likely, he was there when your mom set herself on fire. Clearly, he operates in the downtown area. He must live or work in the zone. Makes it easy for him to get around. Question is… Who's the next target if it's not Andy?"

"That is the question," Tracee muttered. "This guy seemingly found out about Blake's mother. Before that label, she was just a random woman. Why would he even look into her? I don't know how he chooses his targets."

"Girlfriend," Dean said. All eyes turned to him. "I mean, obviously, right? First it was the father-figure. Then the mom, if she is the mom. A lover is the only other option since he doesn't have siblings."

"Yes! Of course!" Tracee exclaimed. "Dean, yes! The killer wouldn't be able to resist that type of intimate bond."

"B-But I don't have a girlfriend," Andrew said.

"What? So who was that woman that was practically falling out of her window to wave you off earlier today?" Tracee asked.

"Oh… She's… a friend? Every dude's friend, really."

"…  _Ah_."

"If it's not her, then who? Someone else close to you could be in danger, and who knows if I'll get another vision in time to stop it," Sam said. "Maybe some ex-girlfriend that you still have feelings for?"

"… There's… There's Tracey," Andrew admitted, shifting uncomfortably. "We dated for a while, but… she broke up with me. I quit the job and… haven't seen her since. Well, until Dr. Jennings… you know."

"Wait? With a Y?"

"With a Y, Dean?" Sam asked.

"… I didn't want to get her confused with  _our_  Tracee—come on, Sammy, keep up."

Tracee ignored them for a moment as she moved back over to the map. She narrowed her eyes, trying to remember the street name where that small coffee shop had been. Coming to her, she marked the spot on the map, and then grimaced, realizing where it had been placed. "Almost dead center," she murmured. "And in between the kill sites." She turned to the three men in the room. "Tracey may very well be in danger. She's our best bet at getting this guy, though."

"Yeah, I think—wait, you know her name?" Dean asked, sounding surprised.

"Same name, Dean, just with a Y. Keep up."

"Smartass," he called her. Tracee only smirked. "Anyway, I think we should split up for this," Dean continued. "Two of us go back to Andy's last place of employment while the other two head to the county office. We can't wait until nightfall."

"I agree," Tracee said. "Dean and I will go to the coffee shop. Sam and Blake will go get a confirmation of Dean's theory. Maybe even find out more information that could help us pinpoint who this guy is."

"Why do I have to go with Andy?" Sam asked.

"Because his powers don't work on you," Tracee explained. "I don't want him telling Dean to do something, and then trying to run away to come to Tracey's aid, putting both of you in danger in the process. The killer might be provoked by your presence and devolve as a result—start killing people without thought or planning."

"And what happens if this guy uses his powers on you?"

"… Our presence  _should_  prevent him from using. He's being careful at the moment, not wanting to draw attention to himself, which is why he's using calls to kill. Right now, we can use that to our advantage." Sam didn't look convinced, and he looked quite troubled by the plan. Tracee pressed her lips together, and then walked towards him. "We'll be fine," she insisted, sliding her palm up his chest. "We have each other's backs, after all." Sam sighed heavily, and the nodded his head.

"Be careful," he said.

"You, too, darling."

"Alright, let's move out," Dean said.

 

0-0

 

Sam pushed down harder on the gas, causing the Impala to jerk forward. He and Andy were heading away from the county office after learning two bombshells. After Andy had used his ability on three people to get them in, they had discovered that Holly Beckett, had been his real mom. That had only been the confirmation, though. The first bombshell had been that the woman had given birth to  _twins_. Each son went with a different family. Gallagher and Weems. The doctor who had walked in front of a bus had overseen the adoption. Tracee had been right about the motivation of the killer. The second bombshell had been the fact that they had already met the evil twin. They were fraternal not identical, so they had no idea of the guy's identity until a picture from the DMV had been faxed over.

Weber. The busboy at the coffee shop. Thinking back, he  _had_  seemed overly enthused when talking about Andy. They had left the county office in a hurry after finding that out. Dean and Tracee had been dropped off at the coffee shop, unknowing the killer had been right under their noses. Sam had sent several texts about the real killer, but there had been no replies from either cell phone. It was a twenty minute drive, and he was becoming increasingly anxious. He had even called, but they had gone silent. Why hadn't they picked up? He could think of only one reason, considering the circumstances. They  _couldn't_ , which meant that the psychic killer had revealed himself. Oh, God. Sam pushed down on the gas pedal as far as it would go. He had to reach them before-

A sharp pain suddenly shot right behind his eyes. Sam, blinded by the pain, nearly veered off the road. He was vaguely away of Andy screaming out in surprise. He had sense enough to move his foot from the gas to the brake. The sound of squealing tires against the pavement was muffled, drowned out by searing ache that came right before a premonition. The car jerked to a stop, and Sam squeezed his eyes shut. His fingers gripped the steering wheel as images and flashes flooded his mind. He shook his head, recognizing the blurry images. Dean. Tracee… They were at the coffee shop, along with the other Tracey. Sam grimaced, and then his eyes shot open, sight unseeing of his current surroundings.

Tracee and Tracey sat in wooden chairs, arms propped on the handles. Tears trickled down the blonde's cheeks as she sobbed quietly. The Slayer stared aimlessly at the floor, head tilted down. Both women wore only their underwear. A cream colored slip on Tracey, and normal dark green bra and panties on Tracee. The click of a gun caused the Slayer to lift her head. Blood ran down from her nose and dripped to her lips. Dean stood in front of the two woman, raising his weapon and aiming it at Tracey. Expression blank, he shot her in the head, and then moved the smoking gun at the remaining woman. Brown eyes stared up at him, already dead. Dean clenched his jaw and squeezed his eyes shut. The gun went off. Tracee's head sprung back from the force of the bullet penetrating her skull. A choked gasp escaped Dean's lips before he put his own gun under his chin. The weapon went off a third time.

With a gasp that made him lose his breath, Sam snapped back to reality. He almost gagged as his brain processed what exactly he had witnessed. No.  _Nonononono_. Fuck that. Nearly growling, he took his foot from the brake and practically stomped down on the gas. Beside him, Andy squealed in surprise as he tried to hang on. "What just happened?!" he questioned. "Did you get another vision? I-I-I don't understand—should you be driving?" Sam shook his head. He probably shouldn't be driving in his current state. The blurriness had yet to fade, but he couldn't take time recovering. He had no way of knowing exactly when that vision would take place, and he would be damned before he let it happen at all. "Look—maybe you sh-should calm down? Explain what exactly-"

"He's gonna try and kill them. All of them. My Tracee. Your Tracey. My brother…" Sam grit his teeth and swallowed hard. "Your evil twin is gonna make them…" He breathed harshly through his nose. Just thinking about it caused his blood to boil in anger. No. He wouldn't let that happen. He was never going to lose either of them. "I'm gonna stop it. I'm going to stop him."

"… You mean kill him…?"

Sam chose not to answer, but his silence was enough. When it came down to his brother and girlfriend versus the psychopathic killer, the answer was obvious. Beside, a guy like Ansem Weems, wandering around with a power like his—it would only be a matter of time before he moved on to a bigger town. Bigger targets. What court would be able to convict him? What prison would be able to hold him? Sam curled his fingers around the steering wheel. There wasn't any other option, was there?

Andy grew quiet, staring down at his lap. Sam sympathized. Everything was happening for him faster than a normal person could process. Not only had he found his birth mother, but he had also lost the chance to know her in the same day… Not that he was trying to think of similarities anymore, but that was something they did have in common. Finally had met his mom, and then she had been gone the next minute. Same with Andy. There was also finding out he had a brother, only to discover that his twin was a cold-blooded murderer. Found and lost on both accounts. It was a lot to take in at once. No matter what happened, this was not going to be a good day for Andy. But it was going to be a lot worse for his twin.

The Impala screeched to a halt across the street from the coffee shop. From here, Sam could see the sign had been flipped on the door to show that the business was closed for the day. The killer might have gotten rid of the rest of the customers and had kept Dean and Tracee. But why…? What had happened that he would take an interest? Sam pressed his lips together as he shut off the car. Maybe Dean had provoked him somehow. That seemed like the most probable. After getting the information, his brother had probably wanted to confront him.

Sam supposed it didn't matter now. He would still stop his latest vision from happening. He got out of the car, and immediately moved to the back of the Impala. Hurriedly, he lifted the trunk, and then the lid to the tire compartment. He pulled his gun from his bag just as he heard the passenger side door shut. Sam looked up to see Andy. "I'm coming with you," he said. "That's Tracey in there, and I'm coming." Sam frowned, not actually liking that. Andy meant well, but this situation was going to be dangerous. He doubted Andy had ever face anything like this before. But Sam couldn't waste more time arguing the cons. Besides, maybe two people that were immune to mind control would be better than one. He nodded his head before reaching into his bag again. He pulled out a roll of duct tape before passing it along to Andy.

"We have to make sure he can't give commands," Sam explained, and then shut the lid of the trunk.

Concealing his weapon, he moved across the street with Andy. Sam peered into the coffee shop by use of the front door. The lights were turned off, but he could just make out a figure standing at the counter, unmoving. He reached for the doorknob, and to his surprise, it was still unlocked. Sloppy. Tracee had been right about the killer so far. He should have been too meticulous to leave the door unlocked… Pushing it to the back of his mind for now, Sam opened the door and stepped inside. He lifted his gun, gaze darting for any movement. He moved quietly around the counter to where he saw the standing figure.

"Dean…!" Sam lowered his weapon and rushed to his brother's side. When he didn't respond, Sam grabbed his shoulder and forced his body to turn. "Dean, what's wrong?"

"I can't… move," he replied.

" _Yes, you can_ ," Andy approached. Dean relaxed, and Sam had to catch him so that he wouldn't fall to the floor. "Where's Tracey?"

"Our Tracee, too," Sam included. "Where'd he take 'em?"

"Back there," Dean gestured with a tilt of his head. "Sam, it's-"

"I had a vision, but you're okay, so I think coming here stopped it-"

"Listen to me!" Dean said in a hushed voice. "That guy… He said he'd  _play_  with them, and then make me kill them." With horrifying realization, the state of dress of the two women in his vision had suddenly made sense.

"I'm gonna kill him!" Sam declared.

"No argument here," Dean vehemently agreed.

"Alright, stay put," he said.

His brother nodded his head in understanding, obviously realizing he wouldn't be much help in this situation. Gripping the handle of his gun, Sam moved towards where Dean had indicated. Andy followed close behind. This wasn't a large building—not a lot of secure places to fit three people, so more than likely, the evil twin had taken them to a storage room. It wasn't long before he came across a closed door. Not caring to see if it was locked or not, Sam kicked open the door. As he thought, he found the three of them. The blonde Tracey's dress was mostly unbuttoned in the front, revealing the slip underneath. His Tracee's jacket had been removed and her buttoned shirt had been completely unbuttoned, showing the dark green bra. The psychic killer stood in front of Tracee, hand covering her neck and pressing his nose against her cheek, seemingly inhaling the scent. It took nearly everything in Sam to not empty out his gun.

"Take your hands off her. Right now!" he snarled. The evil twin scoffed lightly, and then turned around, removing his hand from Tracee's face. Blood dripped down her left nostril. Had she been hit? No, there was no other marks that he could see. Weber smirked at him. Arrogance. He didn't look the least bit perturbed by the barrel of the gun pointed at his face. He tilted his head to the side and opened his mouth.

" _You really don't want to do this_ ," he said.

Sam took one large step forward, and then struck Weber's nose with the butt of his gun. The killer crumbled to the floor, blood streaming down his lower face. Perhaps Sam had used more force than necessary, but anything less wouldn't have been satisfying. "You have no idea what the fuck I wanna do," he snarled. With the disruption, both Tracee and the waitress went limp. Tracee, breathing heavy, managed to get out his name. "Don't move!" Sam ordered, pressing the gun to the killer's temple. "I swear to God I'll end you right here!"

"Andy! I cou-couldn't control myself!" Tracey sobbed. "H-He said he was gonna-"

"I got you! I'm here!" Andy tried to console her.

"Andy…!" Sam called.

"R-Right!" Andy quickly made his way over, slapping duct tape over his estranged brother's mouth. He reared back, only to kick Weber twice, seemingly as angry as Sam. "I'll kill you! I'll kill you!" Clenching his teeth, Sam let Andy kick at the killer a few more times before he pulled him away.

"Alright, enough!" he said. "I'll handle it from here!" Andy didn't resist and obediently fell back. Sam kept his gun's aim on Weber as Andy and Tracey left the storage room. Tracee used the wall to keep herself steady. "Tracee, you okay?"

"No," she murmured. Her eyes glared at the psychic killer as she wiped under her nose. "He said that he's never had chocolate before, and that he would enjoy integrating it into his regular diet." She pushed herself from the wall and stood by Sam's side. He removed his finger from the trigger of his gun, finding it harder to not empty out. "He's not only a killer. He admitted to being a serial  _rapist_  who gets off on being the puppet master." Tracee dropped down, grabbed Weber by the ankle. "Let's see how you fare when your strings are cut. And the puppets rebel." She stood to her full height and began dragging him out of the storage room. Sam watched for a moment before following after. Tracee had dragged him back to the open area of the coffee shop. Dean looked alarmed.

"It's okay—he can't give commands," Sam assured him.

"Oh, he's not going to give any more commands regardless," Tracee said. She walked towards Weber's upper body. She lifted her left leg only to press the sole of her foot against his neck. "Because if he does, nothing will stop me from crushing his airway, and I'll make it as painful as possible. You'll die under the foot of a woman. Would you like that?" The killer psychic glared up at her in response to the question. Tracee tilted her head to the right. "I didn't think so. So here's what's going to happen. I'm going to ask you a question that has been bugging me."

"Trace…" Dean said her name like a warning.

"He caught me off guard last time, but my resistance will be just enough to kill him before his mind control works. I left the door unlocked even though he told me to lock it. My resistance should be enough," Tracee explained. Sam believed her, but his aim on Weber didn't falter. The Slayer lowered herself, bending at the knee to get closer to the glaring psychic on the floor. "I want to know what caused this. How did you find out about your brother in the first place? Of course, you might have known you were adopted, but knowing you had a twin brother? Doubtful. Information that has been sealed doesn't just fall into your lap. You had a closed adoption so even with your powers, you wouldn't get that information from your adoptive family. So explain your motivation."

Sam flexed his fingers around the handle of his gun. Then Tracee ripped the tape from Weber's mouth. He turned his head to the side and spat out blood. "Don't be mad at me, okay?" he started, lifting his hand. Sam cocked his gun as a warning. Weber wisely let his hand fall back to the floor. "I know—it's all wrong. I-I didn't mean for any of this to happen."

"A likely story," Tracee remarked.

"I ain't talking to you, bitch!"

"Hey! Watch your mouth!" Dean snapped.

"For who?  _Her_?" Weber retorted, glancing at Dean. "She's garbage. Both of them are.  _All_  of them are!" Sam's lip twitched in disgust. Clearly, this guy had a deep hatred for women. "They only try to come in between brothers. Me and you, Andy-" He shifted his attention to his fraternal twin. "We can make anyone do whatever we want!"

"Are you… Are you really this stupid?" Andy questioned in disbelief. "You learn you've got a twin, you call him up, go out for a drink. You don't start  _killing_  people—people that have some kinda…  _bond_  with me just because you think they're in the way! You killed our mom! And-And Dr. Jennings! Why?!"

"They separated us! They ruined our lives, Andy! We could've been together this whole time. Instead of  _alone_. I couldn't let them do that… I couldn't let them get away with that," he ranted. "I wanted to tell you for so long, bro, but… he didn't let me," Weber continued. "He said I had to wait until the time-"

"Who?!" Andy asked, irritated. "The guy who told you about me?"

"Yeah, the man with the yellow eyes."

Sam froze in shock. That simple description had met nothing to Andy because he had let out a confused 'wha?' in response. But for three of the room's occupants, that sliver of information might have knocked them right off their feet had it been physical.  _Yellow eyes_. They had only come across them once before—when the Demon had possessed John Winchester. Quickly, Tracee replaced her foot with her hand. Her fingers squeezed around Weber's neck. Effortlessly, he was lifted him off the floor. For the first time, real fear entered his eyes as he stared down at the tiny Slayer. His hands uselessly grabbed at her wrist, trying to pry her fingers away, but Tracee held fast.

"No more of your delusional  _bullshit_!" she hissed. "Tell me everything about this yellow-eyed man! Now!"

"He ca-came to me…" Weber sputtered. "In my dream. He said I-I was special, and that he had big plans for me."

" _What_  plans?!" Sam questioned.

"I-I-I don't know! He didn't say exactly," Weber replied. "Just that I had a brother, and that we both have great things in store for us." Sam exchanged a look with his brother, but Dean had become blank faced. He hadn't been able to discern what his brother could be thinking. Dean only walked forward, coming to stand by his side. Then he took his gun from the inside of his jacket. Before Sam could question it, Dean lifted his arm and pointed the gun at Tracee's back. "… Interrogation over.  _Bye-bye_ , bitch."

"Dean, no!" Sam shouted just as the gun went off. He flinched violently, and then sharply turned his attention back. He choked out a breath of relief. Tracee had turned around, and instead of taking a bullet to the back, she had moved Weber. He had been the one to take the hit. Tracee had been faster. Clicking her tongue, she released her hold, and Weber's body crumbled to the floor. "H-How did he do that? He didn't say anything like-"

"He was in my head…" Dean whispered, lowering his arm. "Trace, I'm sorry. I couldn't-"

"No, no, I should have realized," Tracee grumbled. "Of course someone like him would be stronger than Blake. Damn it. Mind control. Strongest tool would be his mind, not his mouth." She shook her head, scowling. "I wonder if he knew any more about Capital D."

"Guess we'll never know now," Dean commented, putting away his gun.

Sam relaxed, and then put away his gun as well. He moved over to Tracee, wrapping his arms around her. "I'm so glad you're you." He squeezed her tightly. Tracee immediately returned the hug. Anyone else wouldn't have been able to move so fast. He had never been more grateful of her Slayer status than he was at this moment. After a few more moments, Sam released her, and then turned to stare down at the body of Ansem Weems. "He could have known more," he murmured.

"But he did give us something we didn't have before," Tracee said. She and his brother shared a look that Sam didn't quite understand. "It gives us insight. I need to think for a little bit, but I might be able to come up with something."

"What are we gonna do about him, though?" Dean asked.

"I've got you covered," Andy stated, stepping forward.

 

0-0

 

Dean kept fidgeting, and he had no idea why. They were good, he knew it. Andy wouldn't let them down. The psychic was using his powers to make sure the police didn't know about their involvement. Still, with his arms folded, his fingers repeatedly tapped his bicep. He was anxious about something, but the reason for it was not clear yet. Maybe it was being in such close proximity to the authorities. Could be that. They weren't exactly on the right side of the law, after all. Dean grimaced as he watched the body of Ansem Weems being hauled into the back of the coroner's van. Or it might have had something to do with the confirmation of the connection to the biggest hunt of their lives. Yellow eyes had come to town. The Demon had been the trigger for this case. Its influence had spread, and someone unexpected had been thrown their way. It was… nerve-wracking.

Andy suddenly came out of the coffee shop, along with three officers. The three men scattered, but Andy headed straight for them. Dean and Sam pushed themselves from the side of the Impala. Tracee remained seated on top of the hood of the car. Clearly, she was still in thought. She didn't acknowledge the approach of the good twin. "What's up?" Dean questioned as Andy came to a stop.

"They think he shot himself. They won't look into the missing gun," he stated.

"Is your Tracey alright?" Sam asked.

"She's… She was pretty shaken up," Andy admitted. "She didn't understand what happened, so… I… I told her to forget some stuff. It's probably for the best, but I've never used my mind thing on her. She won't look me in the eye. She's scared of me now."

"Maybe she'll understand and come around one day?" Sam tried to console. Andy only frowned and shook his head. His brother frowned tightly, and then reached into the pocket of his jeans. He pulled out a piece of paper. "Andy, I hate to do this but, um… We have to get out of here." He handed Andy the slip of paper. "Here. I wrote down my cell. You don't have to be alone in this, alright? If anything comes up, you can call me up."

"… Wh-What am I supposed to do now?"

"You be good, Andy. Or we'll be back," Dean said.

"And just in case you didn't get that, Blake, that was a warning," Tracee spoke up. "A threat, if you catch our drift."

"Oh…" Andy lowered his head, frowning. "Good."

The fellow psychic turned and walked away. Dean waited until he was out of earshot before turning to the tiny tank on the hood of the car. Her legs dangled over the edge now. "Well, what you got, Trace?" he questioned. She hummed lightly, and the hopped off the Impala. Sam, too, turned his full attention on Tracee.

"I don't think it'll get us closer to knowing what Capital D's plans are, but I got two things out of this situation," Tracee began. "One: Samuel is only having visions of the  _effed_  up things that happens in connection to the Demon."

"Hell, Trace, I could have told you that," Dean stated. "That's not exactly new."

"Obviously," Tracee retorted, slight accent coming through. "What I'm saying is that we got two siblings with the same power in the same town, but he only got the visions about  _one_  of them. The obvious twin was innocent. When I say obvious, I mean he fit the parameters that we were searching for. Fire. Six months. Mom dying. And yet his twin, who did not fit those parameters was the one out killing people, which I think caused Samuel to have his vision in the first place."

"… So… you're saying that I wouldn't have visions about psychics who are not doing anything bad?" Sam asked.

"Yes," Tracee said. "Which brings me to the second thing. Tracking down and putting a number to these psychics is not possible. Because apparently, not all had nursery fires at six months old. Ash only provided one name for this town. We had  _no idea_  about the evil twin until that trip to the county office."

Dean frowned, lowering his gaze to the ground for a moment. He shouldn't have reacted so quickly after finding out. Maybe if he would have waited for his brother and Andy to show, they could have taken Weber by surprise, and… and Tracee would have never been forced into the back room. It was a miracle that Sam had shown up when he had before things had gone too far. But Dean realized what Tracee was getting at. Some were dangerous. Some were not. And they had no real way of knowing unless Sam got a vision first. And with the random times between the vision and the actual event, it wasn't a necessarily strong thing to rely on for these dangerous psychics.

"So there's no more pattern," Sam summarized.

"Correct—not a pattern we can follow at the very least."

"Doesn't matter. For now, we just gotta keep doing what we're doing—find that evil son of a bitch and kill it," Dean stated. Slowly, Tracee nodded her head. After a moment, Sam did, too. "Now, let's get outta here."

" _Um_ , actually, I promised your brother a date. So we're going to walk around before going to the movies," Tracee stated. "And between you and me," she staged a whisper. "He's probably going to give up the goods so don't expect us back too soon." Dean made a face. His brother's cheeks turned a little red. He opened his mouth, looking like he might protest. Then he thought better of it.

"She's probably right," Sam shrugged. "I am."

"You guys are gross," Dean scowled.

"Ain't no shame in my game either, Dean," Tracee said, having the nerve click her tongue and wink.

Dean shook his head as his brother coughed out a laugh. "Fine, whatever, you kids have fun," he told them. Tracee grinned, and then intertwined her fingers with Sam's. He chuckled lightly, and then led his girlfriend away from the Impala. Dean shook his head again as he watched them go. They were lucky he liked them so much. Otherwise, he would leave them stranded making him have to witness their moon eyes. But that wasn't really what mattered at the moment. With a frown tugging at his lips, Dean moved to get in the driver's seat of the car. Once the door shut, he pulled his cell phone out of his jacket pocket.

He began dialing a familiar number, but stopped right before he pushed the button to connect. "Probably shouldn't call," he murmured. Instead, Dean decided to send a text.  _Call me when you have time_ , the text read. As an afterthought, he sent  _Please_. Cassie was probably still in the middle of her deadline. Although he wanted to talk to her about what happened, Dean realized he couldn't interfere with her normal life whenever he pleased. So it had been a surprise when his cell phone began ringing just as he had been about to turn the key in the ignition. Recognizing the caller, he licked his lips and slid the phone up. "Hello, thought you'd be busy," Dean greeted.

" _I'm taking a coffee break_ ," Cassie replied.

" _Ooh_ , coffee? Heavy stuff there, Cassie," he teased.

" _Sue me—I'm on a deadline_ ," she huffed. " _What's up_?" Chuckling a bit, Dean began telling her how the job went and the end result. " _Damn_ …" Cassie seemed to be at a loss for words. " _Who knew there would be a twin involved? And you said that the… the Demon actually contacted him_?"

"In a dream, yeah," Dean confirmed.

" _Damn_ ," she repeated.

"Tell me about it," he muttered.

" _Well, did one of them happen to be in Tracee's Slayer dream_?"

"She would have mentioned if either twin had made her think of it. And I didn't hear one fo them say 'help me' or 'hurt me' either," Dean answered. "But… I do know that Weber was a wild card that almost cost us too much. He's the reason I'm calling now honestly."

"Oh…?  _It wasn't just to hear my voice_?"

"Hilarious," Dean laughed out. She giggled in response. He had to force himself to stop grinning. Clearing his throat, he opened his mouth to continue. "Seriously, though, when you go after that Carey guy, I think Trace should go with you." Dean heard her suck in a breath, seemingly about to voice her displeasure. "Don't argue with me about this, Cassie," he continued before she could get a word in. "Please…" When she didn't say anything, he took it as permission to explain. "The favor I asked you wasn't supposed to be dangerous. You could have easily come to this town and got caught up in all this instead of us. By yourself. If… Weber did anything… If anything happened to you, especially because you're doing a favor for me—us—I wouldn't forgive myself. Trace has to go with you. It's the only way I'll feel comfortable with having you go to a psychic that may or may not be dangerous."

"…  _Okay_ ," Cassie replied. " _I understand. Backup would probably be for the best in case another wild card appears_." Dean released a silent sigh of relief, glad that he didn't have to fight about it. Cassie was normally headstrong. Almost nothing could break her stubborn nature. " _Like Tracee says: better to have it and not need it_ -"

"-Then to need it and not have it," Dean finished. "Yeah, she says that a lot." The two of them shared a chuckle. "So when are you thinking about going? After your deadline?"

" _Probably a few days after_ ," Cassie stated. " _I'll call to let you know when to drop her off at my house. What are you going to tell your brother_?"

"I don't know," Dean shrugged. "Probably that Trace misses her bestie, or something. He'll believe that."

" _We talk on the phone almost every day_."

"Well,  _now_  she wants to see that gorgeous face—can't say I blame her, really," he said. His comment was rewarded with a slight chuckle. "I haven't had the chance to tell Trace about this yet, but I'm sure she'll agree." Cassie hummed in agreement. Then Dean heard other voices in the background. "Sounds like coffee break's over. I'll let you get back to it. Talk to you later, Cassie."

" _Talk to you later, Dean_ ," she mirrored, smile in her voice.

"Yeah, you will." Chuckling, Cassie disconnected the call. Dean sighed through his nose, removing the phone from his ear. He slid it shut and lowered it to his lap. He let out a huff as his eyes darted around. Now, he had to figure out something to do for the next couple hours. Maybe there was a marathon of something on right now. With that thought in mind, Dean started up the Impala. He looked around again, eyeing the crowd that had gathered because of the police cruisers. They were all looking towards the coffee shop, unheard words passing their mouths. Dean furrowed his brow. Except one. Squinting, he leaned forward, focusing on that particular person.

Everyone else was paying attention to the spectacle, but this guy seemed to be looking directly at the Impala. The car had been parked across the street—good thinking on Sam's part—so they should not have been any reason why someone would look this way, right? It was a dude with dark hair. Couldn't see the facial expression from where he sat, but he was definitely looking—at least his line of sight had been away from what was happening at the coffee shop. Frowning, Dean shifted the gear from park. Weird, he thought with a shrug. Maybe the guy was a fan of the model or something? He began driving, slowly, down the street passing by the crowd of people

The guy had not stopped staring. And now that he was closer, Dean could tell the guy must have been around his age. He could also see the striking blue eyes of the man, almost matching the blue tie around his neck. "Take a picture, dude, it'd last longer," Dean muttered even though he stared back just as hard. Then, he blinked. The guy was gone. Dean almost stopped the Impala in surprise. He craned his neck to see if the guy had moved on down the sidewalk, but no… There was no sign of him. Pursing his lips, Dean focused back on the road in front of him. "I need sleep," he decided with a shake of his head. He put a bit more pressure on the gas and sped down the road.

For some reason, those blue eyes didn't leave his mind for several hours.

 

0-0

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't know why I was dragging my feet with this chapter. Hopefully, it doesn't happen again. That being said, I will not be writing anything for this story until I get two chapters out on my other story. I'm hoping to come back to this before the end of the year, but I'm not sure if that will happen. Still stay tuned. It just might.


	29. Test & Become

"Los Angeles, California," Dean suddenly said out loud. Two pairs of eyes looked his way as he shut the trunk of his car. The three stood outside of the Roadhouse. It was morning, but the sun was already high in the sky. They had stopped by in order to eat, and then maybe pick up a case. They had pretty much taken an entire weekend off of hunting, so it was time to jump back in again. Sam furrowed his brow while Tracee cocked an eyebrow. Leaning against the driver side of the Impala, they both showed their confusion at the same time. They hadn't necessarily been quiet, but Dean had come out of left field with that location. "A young girl's been kidnapped by an evil cult."

"Are we going to California?" Tracee asked, slight smirk tugging at her lips. "If so, I need a bikini. And the bikini inspector to…  _inspect_." Her raised eyebrows clearly showed her naughty intent as she stared up at her boyfriend. Said bikini inspector chuckled, cheeks turning red at the implication. Dean scowled and rolled his eyes. He shook his head and told her not to be so gross. She, of course, ignored him and winked at Sam. His brother cleared his throat, but the grin remained on his face. Dean huffed, mildly annoyed. Sam cleared his throat again, turning his focus to Dean.

"This girl gotta name?" he questioned.

"Katie Holmes," Dean stated.

"That's funny," Sam commented, chuckling. Tracee rolled her eyes, but he could see the amusement in her expression. "And, for you, so bitchy."

"Yeah, well-" Before he could continue, raised voices—clearly arguing, though he couldn't make out the words—caught his attention. Dean shifted his focus on the entrance of the Roadhouse. Sounded like Jo and Ellen. Sounded physical, too, judging by the crashing noises that accompanied their voices, which were growing louder by the second. "On the other hand… catfight."

"So we're  _not_  going to California?"

"No bikini inspection for you, Trace," Dean teased, taking a few steps in the direction of the entrance. The tiny tank crossed her arms and moved to follow. Sam pushed himself from the Impala, following after. "Come on, they're kinda our friends."

"No, they're kinda  _your_  friends. I don't care enough about anyone else to be  _kinda_  friends," Tracee said. "You two are just lucky." Dean halted, turning to face her with a look. "What?"

" _Uh_ , Cassie…?" he pointed out.

"Max," Sam chimed in.

"Sarah, probably," Dean added

"Missouri, too," Sam supplied.

"And I'm pretty sure you called Bobby by name the other day. Not to his face, but it still counts," Dean finished with a smirk. Tracee gave the most offended look. She opened her mouth, protest on the tip of her tongue, and then almost immediately shut it as realization set in. "With the rate you're going, it's only a matter of time before they become kinda your friends, too. I'm so proud—that black heart's turning red."

"Shut up—you both have ruined me!" Tracee feigned irritation. Sam chuckled again, draping his arm around her shoulders and leading her towards the entrance. Dean shook his head as he followed his brother and the tiny tank closer to the saloon. It was deserted this time of day, so it was no wonder the two Harvelles made no effort to keep their voices down. As the three of them entered, the screaming match hadn't halted. Hell, they didn't seem to notice them at all. They just kept going back and forth, screaming and screaming. Fortunately, it hadn't come to blows. Dean glanced around the bar. Ash was nowhere in sight—smart man. Chairs were still upside down on top of tables, so clearly they had been arguing for quite some time because the place was supposed to be open for business by now. " _Haah_ …" Tracee, unconcerned, released a heavy sigh. "If I had wanted to watch an episode of  _Maury_ …"

"This is more Jerry Springer, I think," Dean muttered. As luck would have it, both women chose that exact moment to abruptly stop their argument. Both glared at him, so they might have heard the comment. Dean awkwardly looked away, reminding himself that he shouldn't piss off a Slayer… and her mother.

"Guys,  _bad_  time," Ellen said.

"Yes, ma'am…!" Dean and Sam said in unison. It might have been more of a squeak. Man, if looks could kill… Dean cleared his throat. "We rarely drink before ten anyway," he joked, attempting to lighten the mood. It did not work. The two blondes continued glaring. Well, that was that. Clearly, the three of them were not wanted at the moment, and so they headed back towards the door.

"Wait…!" Jo called out. "I want to know what they think!"

"I don't  _care_  what they think!" Ellen retorted.

"Hey, are you guys open?" A new voice caused Dean to look towards the entrance. A family of four had come in. A man and a woman, both carrying identical toddlers. Jo and Ellen screamed out an answer. Problem was that the older blonde had said yes while the other had said no. "… We'll just… check out the Arby's down the road…" The man opened the door again, leading his wife and children out. Clearly, they had wanted to avoid the bit of family drama going on. Dean had half a mind to follow. Beside him, Tracee muttered that she also wanted to check out the Arby's. Dean nudged her with his elbow.

Then the phone started ringing. For a moment, they all just watched it ringing. After the third or fourth ring, Ellen huffed as she went behind the bar to answer it. As soon as she picked it up, Jo walked towards them, holding up a manila folder. "Three weeks ago, a young girl disappears from a Philadelphia apartment," she began, expecting the file to be taken. Dean did not. "It won't bite." Jo gave a pointed look, jerking the file at him.

" _Uh_ , yeah… Remember when I told you I'm scared of your mom?" he asked her with raised eyebrows. "That hasn't changed." Jo scoffed, not at all amused with his response. In the end, Tracee was the one to take the file from the baby Slayer. It was just like her to be eager about a mystery, supernatural or otherwise. Jo pursed her lips as Tracee's eyes quickly scanned the contents of her file. After a beat, Dean looked over the tiny tank's shoulder to peer into the file as well. The contents of the file were newspaper articles, as far as he could guess, with circled and highlighted words and phrases. He hummed lightly, slightly impressed by accumulation of information.

"And this girl isn't the first, as you can see," Jo stated. "Over the past eighty years, six women have vanished." Dean noticed the smirk on Tracee's face. "All from the same building." The smirk spread into a grin. "All young blondes." A slight, barely heard, squeal of glee came from Tracee. Dean had to stop himself from rolling his eyes. Sam, also taking notice, subtly nudged his girlfriend before her squealing could get any louder. Tracee cleared her throat as Jo continued speaking. "Only happens every decade or two, so cops never eyeball the pattern. So we're either dealing with a very old serial killer or-"

"Who put this together?" Dean interrupted. "Ash…?"

"I did it myself," Jo stated. Dean hummed again, causing her brow to pinch together.

"I gotta admit," Sam began with a shrug. "We've hit the road for a lot less. And Tracee's clearly excited." The tiny tank grinned so hard her eyes squeezed shut. She nodded her head in agreement.

"So let's hit the road, Bo," she said.

"Oh no, she's not going  _anywhere_ ," Ellen, done with the phone call, walked over to them. "If you like the case so much,  _you_  take it." Jo sharply turned to her mother, exclaiming in disbelief. "Joanna Beth, this family has lost enough! And I won't lose you, too. I just  _won't_." Watching the interaction, Dean frowned a bit. Huh. Foot had firmly been put down. Jo, in turn, lowered her gaze to the floor. Argument was apparently over. Not what he had expected, honestly. But… he supposed it was none of his business. So with an awkward goodbye, he, his brother, and Tracee took their leave.

It took a while, but the three finally had reached Philadelphia. It hadn't taken a whole lot of asking around to locate the apartment building, but since it had been so late by the time they arrived in Philadelphia, they decided to check into a motel for the night. Sam had barely spoken a word because he had chosen to study the information Jo had compiled. Tracee, as excited as she had been, decided to wait to see the crime scene before making deductions. After all, the articles, and other sources, had biased opinions—people who had no knowledge of abnormal things. The two of them still ended up falling asleep with the contents of the file on their bed. Dean, himself, had snagged Tracee's handbook. He had spent most of the night reading up on Slayers. It had been a curiosity thing. Honestly, he hadn't been thinking about  _other_  Slayers much, so he thought he could refresh his memory a bit.

The next morning, the three of them had driven to the apartment building. Now, Dean stood outside of the victim's apartment, waiting for Sam to pick the lock to the girl's abandoned apartment. Finally, his brother twisted the latch and pushed opened the door. He took a cautious look around before completely entering the apartment, allowing Dean and Tracee to follow suit. The tiny tank quietly shut the door behind them. "I feel kinda bad snaking Jo's case," Sam commented, pulling his EMF out of his jacket pocket. Without a word, Tracee took his tool case from his other hand and slid it into his other pocket. She gave a noncommittal hum and walked further into the apartment, probably eager to start snooping.

"Well, maybe she put together a good file," Dean commented, eyes darting around the place. "But could you see  _her_  out here, working one of these things?" He clicked his teeth as he started up his EMF. "I don't think so." The device whirred to life, and he immediately started scanning. "You getting anything?" His brother gave a negative. "Trace, what about you?" He didn't receive an answer. Furrowing his brow, he called out to Tracee again. "Trace? You find something?" he asked, louder.

"This apartment is amazing!" she called back. "You should see the size of this bedroom."

"We're not  _house shopping_ , Trace!" Dean retorted. Tracee appeared from around the corner. "Do you sense something or not?" She shrugged her shoulders, and then calmly gestured to the wall directly behind him. Blinking, Dean turned, aiming the EMF at the brick wall. Sam, too, walked over. Both of the devices nearly blared as they moved closer. His brother leaned forward, narrowing his eyes at an open socket for a light switch. His hand reached out, index finger swiping at the corner. Dean saw the black goo and frowned. He, too, reached to examine the substance. "Is this…? This is ectoplasm." He scoffed lightly. "Well, I think I know what we're dealing with here. It's the Stay Puft Marshmallow Man."

"Dean," Sam rolled his eyes and shook his head, apparently not finding his joke funny. "I've only seen this stuff, like… twice. I mean, to make this stuff, you have to be one  _majorly_  pissed off spirit." He turned towards his girlfriend. "You can sense this? Is there a spirit here now?"

"It's a residue, I think," Tracee told him. She shifted from side to side, crossing her arms and frowning. Her reluctance to get closer was noticeable. "It's not quite as concentrated as sensing the real thing, but  _shyeah_ , I agree with the majorly pissed thing. What I'm sensing now feels like a repellent, almost. Lord, help me when it comes to the real thing." She visibly shivered. "Just malicious for no reason."

"Alright, let's find this badass before he snags anymore girls," Dean said. The two nodded their heads in agreement. "Trace, come here for a second."

"No."

"Why? Just come here."

"No," she repeated, and then headed towards the door.

"Sammy," Dean switched his attention to his brother. Sam narrowed his eyes, but dutifully moved closer. Dean took the chance to smear the black goo on his brother's cheek. He reared back sharply, but the damage had already been done. Laughing to himself, Dean stuffed his hands in his pockets and followed after Tracee. "Your girlfriend has more sense than you, dude." Sam grumbled to himself, furiously wiping at his cheek, and then rubbing the side of his pants to get the goo off his skin. Tracee merely shook her head as she opened the door.

They left the apartment, roaming the hallways for only a few minutes before they could hear voices. Tensing, Dean and Sam pressed their backs to the wall. Tracee blinked at their movements as though confused. Not having the time to argue with her, Dean made a face and sharply turned his head, indicating that she should attempt to hide as well. Rolling her eyes, the tiny tank pressed her front against Sam's. She grinned up at her boyfriend, and he gave a small smile in return as his arms lifted so he could squeeze her hips. Dean shook his head and shifted his eyes down the hallway. Those two couldn't go one hour, could they?

"… You know, my friend told me that I absolutely had to come check it out." Hang on. He knew that feminine voice. Dean peered out of cover to see Jo Harvelle, as suspected, walking down the hall with presumably the landlord, a middle-aged man with a gut and a receding hairline. "And I have to admit, she was right. You did a really good job with this place."

"What the hell are you doing here?" Dean asked, stepping out of cover. Behind him, Sam and Tracee did the same. Not missing a beat, Jo smiled prettily and moved at a quicker pace. She wrapped an arm around him and called him  _honey_. It took him a second to even realize what was happening. Jo had introduced him as her boyfriend, and Sam and Tracee as friends, gripping him a bit tighter to silently convince him to go along with it. There was that Slayer strength. Biting the inside of his mouth, Dean forced a smile on his face as the landlord stuck his hand out for a standard handshake.

"Good to meet you," the landlord greeted pleasantly, not recognizing the grimace on Dean's face for what it was. He could almost feel his skin bruising. "Quite a gal you've got there."

"Yeah, she's a  _pistol_!" he agreed, slapping Jo's ass harder than necessary. She, thankfully, got the message and let her arm slip away from him. Tracee snickered, and Dean decided to somehow get her back for that later. Jo, still putting on a show, sweetly asked if he had already checked out the apartment. "Yeah, it was great. Loved it.  _Great_  vibes. Isn't that right, Trace?"

" _Shyeah_ , vibes were good. The half bath connected to the bathroom is a nice touch," Tracee played her part. "Maybe you'll have an extra tenant or two once a room becomes available? What do you think, darling?" she asked, addressing her boyfriend.

"I… I thought the kitchen was nice," Sam admitted.

"How'd you get in?" the landlord questioned, expression slowly shifting to suspicion.

"It was opened," Dean lied.

The man opened his mouth, furrowing his brow. Reacting quickly, Jo asked about the previous tenant to distract him. Her tactic worked, especially since the landlord, Ed, complained a bit. Voice as sweet as honey, Jo called him  _Deano_ , which he did not like, and then held up a wad of cash, stating that they would take it. Dean eyed the money in surprise. It was  _a lot_. In the end, money and keys were exchanged, and the four awkwardly made their way back to the apartment to settle in. Should've just went to  _Arby's_  like Tracee suggested, but no...! They were kinda friends.  _Tch_.

He was going to regret this job.

 

0-0

 

Dean Winchester was an ass, Jo realized. Initially, she had thought he had been the same as the other young hunters that had passed through the Roadhouse—easy to swindle to make extra money. Hell, even the older hunters had become marks. Show a guy a little attention, and they became easy targets. He, however, hadn't been susceptible to light flirting. Sure, he had flirted back, which had been expected, but Jo had gotten the sense that there had been no underlying intent. Flirting had just been something to do, and he expected nothing to come out of it. Admittedly, that had been the reason her opinion of him had changed. He had seemed the same as other hunters, but there had been a difference that Jo had found herself intrigued by. Something about him had just made her want to gravitate towards him.

Honestly, the moment she had decided to go to Philadelphia, against her mother's wishes, she had hopes of working with Dean. Sure, the job had been a priority, but she had gotten a rush of excitement at the thought of being close to the older Winchester. Her revised opinion of him consisted of being cool, laidback, and funny. Also easy on the eyes. Seriously, his freckles were sexy. She hadn't thought freckles could be so tempting until she had gotten an up close look at them. Not to mention, he was obviously a good hunter, having been taught by John Winchester. Jo could see herself learning from him easily.

But ever since she had approached the three in the hallway, Dean had been a complete ass to her. His reaction to her presence had been borderline repulsion. Jo was willing to bet he would give his left nut away if it met that he didn't need to deal with her. From the start, he had been agitated, constantly snapping at her and questioning her actions. He had even made several comments about her competence. The only decent thing he had done so far had been to not blabber to her mother when she had called his cell phone. The decency had stopped there, unfortunately.

Dean had had the brilliant idea of looking for the spirit in pairs. Sam and Tracee. Himself and her. Even though the logical thing to do would be to split up completely to cover more ground and not waste time, he had vetoed that idea, making it abundantly clear that she could not take care of herself. Jo scowled at the older Winchester's back as he focused on scanning the walls with his EMF. They were in the hall, hoping to come across a concentration of the spirit that had been taking these women. Jo split her time with scanning and glaring at Dean, whom had seemed none the wiser of her heated gaze.

She was a Slayer, or whatever, and since he had been traveling around with one, he should have realized that she didn't  _need_  protection. Nor want it. She didn't need someone breathing down her neck at all. She was strong, and according to Tracee, custom-made for this life. And yet Dean had been trying so hard to deter her from the job. If she had been anyone else, she might have let his comments and interrogations get the better of her. But she was too tough for that. So no matter what he said or thought—or how sexy his freckles might be—Jo would not be convinced to go running back home.

Suddenly flinching, Jo slowed her pace. She turned her heard, eyes focused on the wall beside her. There was a prickly feeling just underneath her skin. Arm lifting, she held her device closer. It didn't read anything out of the ordinary, though… Out of the corner of her eye, she noticed Dean had slowed as well, and was now walking beside her. Any other time, she might have been pleased with his proximity, but she knew exactly why he was basically on top of her. For heaven's sake—she had only been a few feet behind him.

"So are you gonna buy me dinner?" Jo asked with biting sarcasm.

"What are you talking about? Trace's buying dinner tonight," Dean stated, frowning.

" _Trace_  is not the one  _riding_  my ass right now," she snapped back, ignoring the urge to stomp away. "A decent dinner is usual the cost of riding so close to me."

"Oh, you're  _hilarious_ ," Dean retorted just as sarcastic. "You know, it's bad enough that I lied to your mom-" Jo rolled her eyes and shook her head. His irrational fear of her mom had been funny at first, but now it was just annoying and counterproductive. Bet he wouldn't even sneeze in the same room if he could help it. "-but if you think I'm letting you outta my sight for even a  _second_  during this job, you've got another thing coming." Jo scoffed, finding it harder to stomp ahead. "I don't know if you've noticed, but you're kinda the spirit's type." She halted, sharply turning to face him. Well,  _duh_! Wow, he must have really thought she was some idiot.

"Exactly…!" Jo hissed out. Dean stopped as well, having the nerve to look confused. "It's one of the reasons I chose this job. I'll lure it out and take care of it. Quickest way to get it done."

"Oh, man," he shifted his gaze upwards. "I am  _so_  regretting this."

"You know, I've had it up to here with your crap!" Jo nearly shouted. Dean actually managed to look offended. "Your  _chauvinistic_  crap! You think women can't do the job, but newsflash, Dean—we're apparently  _better_  at it!"

"Oh, sweetheart, this ain't gender studies," he said. "Women can do the job just fine. Slayers, I admit, can do it a bit faster. But don't go lumping yourself in with them just yet. You're an amateur. You've got no experience. But what you do have is a bunch of half-baked romantic notions that some barflies put in your head." Jo scoffed, opening her mouth to give a scathing response about him sounding just like her mother, but Dean wasn't trying to give her a word in edgewise. "You think you know it all, but you  _don't_. You're naïve—reckless—and that's gonna get you killed. But I'll be  _damned_  before it's on my watch, so get  _your_  boxers out of that twist, and keep  _up_."

Dean turned away from her at the end of his tirade, so he completely missed the Jo's reaction. She felt like a child. Her teeth clenched together, feeling her throat constrict and a stinging in her eyes. She hadn't felt anything akin to this since she had been a teenager. Her lip wobbled a bit, and Jo clamped an incisor down on it in response. Did he have to be so callous? She swallowed hard, trying to stomp down on the onslaught of rejection and hurt. Dean called back to her without so much of a backwards glance, telling her to move her ass. In a way, she was grateful that he hadn't turned around. A tear managed to slip out of her eye. Quietly sniffling, she hurriedly rubbed at her cheek. After clearing her throat, she moved to catch up with the older Winchester.

He was such an ass.

 

0-0

 

She couldn't stop thinking about it either.

Hours after, with morning fast approaching, Jo still couldn't get Dean's words out of her head. Yesterday, she had discovered traces of the violent spirit that stole these women away—a clump of hair, still attached to skin, had been inside a vent in the hallway. She had also felt a surge of the spirit's presence, but it had vanished before she had gotten a lock on its location. Still, she had been the one to make progress at the job, but that slight elation had been short lived.

She just could not stop thinking about what Dean had told her. That whole thing about not lumping herself with other Slayers… It had been an insult. Granted, it hadn't been that long since she had discovered what exactly a Slayer was, but his flippant words reminded her greatly of being called the  _freak with the knife collection_. She was, according to Dean's implication, a freak even amongst her so-called sisters.

Frowning, Jo shifted a glare in the older Winchester's direction. He had taken the chair last night, while his brother and Tracee had retired to the bedroom. As Jo hadn't slept, the couch had been vacant all night. Yes, she had been petty by not telling Dean that he could have it, and she had no regrets either. The ass deserved to have a screwed up back whenever he decided to wake up. Huffing, her eyes returned to the table. Her night had consisted of going over notes and such. So far, nothing really stood out to her on where the spirit could possibly be stashing his victims. But she was trying her hardest to… when she wasn't trying to set Dean on fire with just her eyes. Slayers, unfortunately, didn't have that ability.

A creak of a door opening caught Jo's attention. She looked to find Tracee slowly making her way out of the bedroom. Her fellow Slayer softly shut the door, so Sam must have still been asleep. "Morning," Jo greeted her just as Tracee turned to face her direction. Her dark brown eyes glanced towards the older Winchester. Then she nodded in acknowledgement. "How was the bed?"

"Plush," Tracee replied. She covered a yawn. "You know, we could have taken turns or something."

" _Nah_ , I didn't sleep, anyway," Jo replied with a shrug. Her fellow Slayer hummed lightly, and then began moving throughout the apartment, seemingly in search of something. After a moment or two, she finally huffed out in annoyance before lifting Sam's jacket from the back of the couch. She hurriedly put it on, and expectedly, it nearly swallowed her form. However, Tracee hadn't seemed to mind at all, judging from the way she grinned as she wrapped her arms around herself. "You going out?" Jo interrupted her before she forgot that she had an audience. There's no way she wanted to witness Tracee hugging something of Sam's. She had gotten enough of their affection for each other last night.

" _Shyeah_ , to get breakfast," Tracee answered as if she hadn't been about to inhale the scent of the jacket she wore. "I'll walk, but it shouldn't take too long." She tilted her head as she came closer to the table. "Find anything?"

"Not really," Jo answered. Her eyes darted in Dean's direction for a moment. "Hey, you want company? Kinda bored here." Tracee shrugged, and then motioned her to follow. Jo immediately stopped maneuvering her blade between her fingers, something she did when she was deep in thought or anxious, and then stood up. She slipped the knife in her back pocket. "Let me grab my jacket. Should we leave a note?"

"I already told Samuel," Tracee stated, going towards the door. But let's try to make it back before they wake up completely, shall we?" Jo moved just a bit quicker, after slipping on her jacket, to meet the older Slayer at the door.

Within moments, the two Slayers were walking down the sidewalk, on the way to a café two blocks away, according to Tracee. They moved in silence, only the sounds of their footsteps against the pavement were heard as dawn approached. Jo glanced sideways at the older woman beside her. Honestly, she didn't know a whole lot about her, other than she was also a Slayer and was dating Sam Winchester. She didn't know how long Tracee had been traveling around with the two brothers, but Dean had treated her differently. Whenever Tracee offered a suggestion or gave an idea, the older brother had taken it at face value. He hadn't questioned her or tried to shoot down every little thing she had said. What was the big difference then? It was aggravating.

"So…" Jo began. "How long have you known them?" Tracee only turned her head slightly, lifting up a brow. "Them—Dean and Sam," she elaborated. "You guys seem… close." That was putting it mildly. There were practically seamless. Watching them interact last night over dinner had been eye-opening. The way they had been so comfortable with each other… The teasing, the affection, hell, even the bickering had all been nearly tangible. But no matter how hard she might have tried, Jo just couldn't touch it. Maybe because she couldn't understand it…? That seemingly lifetime of memories between the three of them was untouchable.

"Almost half a year… I think," Tracee replied. Jo almost halted in surprised. She had thought they had practically grew up together with the way they interacted. Her fellow Slayer shrugged, nonchalantly as though it hadn't mattered regardless. "Not sure, really—days blend together, at times."

"And… And how long did it take for Dean to not be an ass to you?"

"I'm not sure what you mean."

"Come on! Don't pretend you haven't seen him talk down to me because he thinks I don't know what I'm doing," Jo said. "Didn't you tell me that you learned about all this stuff when you met them? Dean didn't think you were an amateur, too?"

"Amateur…?" Tracee repeated, slight chuckle in her voice. "No, Bo, I was no amateur. Despite not knowing about this world prior to meeting them, I was still trained to survive it. My father is—was—a Watcher. I started off young."

"So  _that's_  the big difference?!" Jo scoffed. "You started off young and that's okay, but I get ridiculed for trying to start  _now_?" She crossed her arms hard, feeling a surge of annoyance towards the handsome Winchester. "Well,  _excuse me_  for not having a Watcher to train me! He's such an ass!" Tracee sharpened her gaze into a glare, causing Jo to flinch. "H-He is…!" she insisted.

"Maybe so," Tracee relented. "But let's try to keep the name calling to yourself, huh?" Jo pursed her lips, choosing not to retort. In an instant, she had recalled the way her fellow Slayer had reacted just by putting a gun on Dean. Well, actually, she had punched him, too, hadn't she? "And for the record, I don't think he's treating you like this because you might be an amateur. After all, amateurs can learn. Ignorance can be rectified. Now, I won't pretend to know the true reason for Dean's behavior towards you, but perhaps it has something to do with you playing at being a hunter."

"I'm not  _playing_  at anything!" Jo retorted hotly. "I can be just as good as any hunter if people would just give me a  _fucking chance_!"

Ever since she had mentioned that she might want to follow in her father's footsteps—to be a hunter—she had been faced with scorn and disapproval. Her mother, not wanting to hear a word of it, had sent her off to school afterwards, all in an effort to deter her from the life. She had been an outcast because she had shown her blades to the wrong person, and he had gone blabbering to anyone who would listen. Only made worse in 2003 by some unknown force—now known as the Slayer activation—causing her to scream out in the middle of a basketball game. She had gone from a girl with a knife collection to the  _freak_  with the knife collection. After that, college had been a nightmare. And so she had dropped out, only to come home to more disapproval. Of course, her mother had come down on her like a storm, so, no, Jo hadn't told the truth about what had happened in college.

She had decided then—after Ash's help of testing her new abilities—that she would strive to be a hunter. At eighteen, it had been a passing remark, but at age twenty, she had been sure she had wanted to become a hunter. But now, at twenty one, she had, not only her mother, but Dean Winchester  _and_  her fellow Slayer trying to keep her from what she, apparently, was meant to do. Everywhere she turned to for support and some sort of approval, all she got were a big fat pile of 'You don't know what you're doing.' Jo had become sick and tired of it. She wasn't some little kid. She knew exactly what she wanted and how to do it. She was going to be a hunter. But would it kill to have someone actually  _believe_  in her?!

Tracee regarded her coolly, outwardly not effected by the outburst. It took a beat, but Jo realized they had stopped walking, and now they were facing each other, moments away from combat. The younger Slayer clenched her teeth, but refused to look away. A thoughtful hum came from the slightly shorter girl. "Perhaps I didn't word that correctly," she finally said. "I meant that you're trying to be something you're not, Bo. You're not a hunter." Jo opened her mouth, prepared to hiss out a correction of her name, and obscenities, to be perfectly honest, but Tracee continued. "You're a  _Slayer_ —extraordinarily different from hunters. Striving to be something less than what you are is foolish and will not gain you respect."

"What…? I-"

"Dean might be testing you, and you're  _failing_ ," Tracee continued. "Because according to him, you're not behaving like a Slayer. Letting your mother roll over you, lying to her just to do what you need to do, becoming meek in the face of harsh words, even using an EMF when you don't  _need_  to—it's not what he's come to expect from a Slayer. Maybe he's being biased, but there is some truth in it. Us Slayers—we're the powerhouses of this world. Humanity's last line of defense  _and_  first line of offense. Theoretically, there is nothing and no one that can stop us.  _Except_  ourselves. You want to go out and slay—do it. No need to lie about it and hide. If someone's being an ass, you let them know that that isn't acceptable. This is  _your_  show. You started this case. You worked it, gathering all the information you could. You don't have to prove anything to anyone because you are the authority here. We're just backup, but if you, a  _Slayer_ , settle with 'hunter' as the goal, then you're going to be treated like an inexperienced child, trying to sit at the grownup table. And not the  _warrior_  you truly are. So in Dean's mind, you're  _playing_. He doesn't understand why you're doing this. Do  _you_  even understand?"

Jo bit her lower lip. Tracee, done speaking, turned and continued down the sidewalk, slipping her hands into the pockets of Sam's jacket. After a moment of standing there, brow furrowed in contemplation, the younger Slayer followed. She fell into step with Tracee, but chose not to speak. Her words pierced deep within her, making her rethink her entire outlook. The older Slayer had mentioned Dean, but Jo couldn't help but think that most of those words had been Tracee's opinion, too. As a Slayer, maybe she hadn't been doing enough. Honestly, the whole Slayer thing had been at the back of her mind. It hadn't been  _too_  important to learn of her origins. Sure, it had been okay to put a label on the sudden superpowers, but in the long run, it meant nothing to her other than she had an advantage. The way Tracee had spoken sounded as though it was more than just an advantage.

The two Slayers had continued their walk in silence. They made it to the café just as the sign had been flipped. Tracee had calmly ordered three dozen donuts, despite the wide-eyed look from the cashier, and coffees. She had also gotten a large hot chocolate for herself. And at the last second, she ordered a slice of pie. Jo had commented that it had been too early for pie, to which Tracee had retorted with a sarcastic 'I didn't realize there was a time restriction on pie.' Jo had scowled half-heartedly, watching her fellow Slayer purchase the items. The drinks and pie had been given to her to carry while Tracee had carried the three boxes of donuts. They had left the small café and had begun the trek back to the apartment complex.

As they made their way back, Jo juggling four cups and the container with the slice of pie, two police cruisers zoomed past. To her surprise, they had stopped just outside the apartment complex. From her vantage point, she could see officers nearly racing into the building. Immediately, she got a bad feeling. Why else would police show up to a building that they had already been investigating? Jo glanced at Tracee, but her dark brown eyes were focused ahead, lips having had formed a frown. Apparently, she had reached the same conclusion.

"Let's go," Jo found her voice, and her fellow Slayer nodded her head in agreement.

 

0-0

 

"You know, you keep glaring at me like it's gonna change your back situation," Sam commented from his place at the table. He hadn't even looked up from his laptop to say it. Dean continued to scowl despite the comment. Every time he turned or twisted, it reminded him that his younger brother had gotten a good night's sleep, while he had managed to get into the most awkward position on the recliner chair. He was still in his twenties for crying out loud. He shouldn't be waking up with back problems. Meanwhile, Sam had practically rubbed it in how good it had been to sleep in the queen-sized bed with his girlfriend. Well, not in so many words, but the smugness had been sensed.

Speaking of his girlfriend, Tracee, and Jo, had gone out to get breakfast. Not exactly uncommon for the tiny tank to get the most important meal of the day because she felt the two brothers never got enough for her Slayer appetite and she usually did part of her ritual before either of them woke up. But they had been gone awhile, it felt like. Sam had said Tracee had left the bed about forty five minutes before he had dragged himself out. So she and Jo had been gone for almost an hour. The keys to the Impala were still on the kitchen's counter next to the sink, so they hadn't driven anywhere. Should they really have been gone this long? Then, as if on cue, the two girls came through the door. Tracee, with a frown on her face, set the three long boxes on the island counter. Jo, looking mildly panicked, yet determined, shut the door behind her.

"Took you long enough," Dean said, standing up. Sam stood up as well, going over to the tiny tank to give her a hug. "Where's the coffee?" Tracee reared back from her boyfriend, turning her head in Jo's direction. Dean, too, shifted his gaze to the younger girl. Pink dotted her pale cheeks and her eyes looked anywhere but at Tracee.

"Where's our drinks, Bo?" she questioned.

"… I… sorta dropped everything to run to the apartment," Jo admitted.

"Who the hell told you to do  _that_?! Do you know how much I spent?!"

"The donuts costed you way more!" she argued back.

"That's  _still_  my money wasted!"

"Alright, calm down, Trace," Dean interjected before things got out of hand. "It was just coffee."

"She also had your slice of blueberry pie, Dean."

"…  _What_?!"

"Can we please focus?" Sam asked, rolling his eyes. "Why exactly did you two run back?"

"We saw the cops—they were outside of another apartment," Jo answered, seemingly ignoring the slight glare on Dean's face. "We listened in and found out another girl's been taken. Boyfriend reported her missing at dawn. Her name's Teresa Ellis in apartment 2F."

"We waited until they left to check the inside. There were traces of ectoplasm, not to mention the heavy presence of just the thing's residue," Tracee continued. "Cracks in the wall and ceiling, so between the hair Dean found and this new evidence, I say we're dealing with a voyeur type of serial killer. Watches through the walls, grabs them through the walls."

"Yeah, but who is it?" Dean questioned. "The building's history's totally clean."

"I was thinking about that," Jo spoke up again, slipping off her jacket. She moved towards the table, hanging the jacket on the back of one of the chairs. "I was looking over pictures this morning and I remember seeing something off." Her hands sifted through papers and photos, and then she picked up a photo in particular. Her eyes narrowed down at the picture. "Maybe we were just looking in the wrong place." She handed him the grainy black and white photo. "Check it out," she instructed. "That empty lot is where this building was built," she explained as Dean and Sam examined the photo. Tracee had chosen to put a donut in her mouth. "Take a look at the building next door. The windows are barred."

"We're next door to a prison?" Dean asked. "That would explain the majorly pissed off spirit. Might be a hellava lot of people that died violently."

"I'm calling Ash to see if he can find out more about the prison, and then we'll go from there," Jo announced, and then walked further into the apartment, stopping at the window to pull her cell phone out. Dean watched her for a moment through narrowed eyes. She seemed… different. He couldn't put his finger on it, but something had changed about her demeanor. Shifting his eyes to Tracee, she approached the Slayer with his arms crossed.

"You really think this guy's a serial killer?" he questioned.

"Well,  _shyeah_ ," she replied after swallowing the sweet dough in her mouth. "There's actually quite a few female tenants here, but only blondes have been taken so far. This guy obviously has a penchant. If Ash can provide us a list, we could narrow it down by charges. Find the name. Find the graveyard. Find the bones. For now,  _breakfast_."

After a few minutes, Jo had gotten off the phone with Ash, causally threatening the genius with pliers if he spilled the beans to Ellen Harvelle. She had told them that Moyamensing prison had been the building next door, and apparently their style of execution dealt with hanging prisoners in the empty lot. Like Jo had said, the apartment had been built on that empty field. Now, they were waiting around for Ash to email the list of people who were executed. Sam and Tracee were at the table while Dean and Jo were in the living room part of the apartment. The blonde was standing near the window, eyes directed outside, and fingers expertly twirling her small blade through her fingers.

A giggle suddenly came from the kitchen area, causing Jo to stop maneuvering the knife and shift her focus to the table. Dean had only glanced in that direction, already knowing that the girly laugh had come from Tracee. She sat on Sam's lap, whispering something in his brother's ear. Those two… Jo made a face, muttering something that might have been 'gross.' Dean stood up from the couch, heading towards her. "Welcome to my world," he said, leaning against the brick wall. "Just be glad you don't have to travel around with them."

"Are they like that  _all_  the time?" Jo asked, curious.

"Not  _all_  the time," Dean admitted. "But still, they're definitely one of those annoying couples that paw at each other and forget when other people are in the room." The blonde chuckled a bit, smile lingering on her face. Her eyes shifted back outside, expression turning just a bit wistful. Maybe she was thinking about a past relationship…? Hell, if wanted to hear about it, though. But just as quickly as it appeared, her expression changed back to neutral. She began flipping the knife again. Dean recognized it as the blade that she had thrown at Tracee during their initial meeting. "You know, for a pig stick, that thing can do some real damage," he said, gesturing with a head tilt.

"Throw it hard enough and anything can do some real damage," Jo countered. Again, she halted her ministrations. "And ever since I… changed, I can throw things pretty hard." She pressed her lips together. "But this is only a weapon in appearance," she stated. Almost shyly, she handed the knife to Dean, hilt facing him. He took the offered knife, examining it. On the side, initial had been engraved. W.A.H. "William Anthony Harvelle," she supplied. Oh. Her father's. Understanding, Dean handed the knife back to her. "What do…?" Appearing hesitant, she cleared her throat. "What do you remember about your dad? I mean, what's the first thing that pops into your head?"

Dean swallowed. He hadn't expected a question like that. Truthfully, the very first thing that had come to mind had been his father's last words. He loved John Winchester and there had been so many good things, but that had been the  _worst_  and first thing he could think of. Clenching his jaw, Dean shifted his line of sight to the floor. No way in Hell he would say something like that. "I…" he started, but his mouth felt particularly dry. Glancing towards the kitchen, he realized that Sam and Tracee weren't paying any attention. "I was seven. He took me shooting for the first time." Yeah, that was the one. Harmless. A memory he could look back on in fondness. "You know, bottles on a fence—that kinda thing. I bulls-eyed every one of them. He gave me this smile, like…" Shrugging, he focused back on Jo. "I don't know."

"He must have been proud," she said.

"What about your dad?" Dean asked, pushing thoughts of his father away.

"I was still in pigtails when my dad died, but I remember him coming home from a hunt," Jo admitted. "He'd burst through that door like… like Steve McQueen or something. And he'd sweep me up in his arms, and I'd breathe in that old leather jacket of his. And my mom, who was sour and pissed from the minute he left, she'd start smiling again. And we were… we were a family." She tilted her head, frowning now. "I wanted to do this, not because of what some barfly may or may not have told me, but because of him. It's my way of being close to him. As romantic as you think that is—there's nothing wrong with it."

"… No, I guess not," Dean acknowledged. He understood perfectly. "Look, Jo, I'm sorry about being hard on you. I am, but,  _uh_ … this—what we do—it's no walk in the park, even for a Slayer." He thought back to the time Tracee had been freaked. Even someone like her had been traumatized by a hunt gone bad. Luckily, she hadn't been alone when it had mattered. Other Slayers, with just one bad hiccup, hadn't been as lucky. He didn't want Jo to become one of the unlucky ones. Because if she would, it would become concrete in his mind that Slayers could die just as easily. He couldn't let that happen. "You want to honor your old man, and I get that, but you are not him. You're not like any other hunter, so you've got to stop thinking-"

"Like a hunter? And more like a Slayer?"

"Well, yeah," Dean said with a nod. "Our potential is limited, but it isn't that way with Slayers." Victor, Tracee's father, had drilled it into his head that week they had spent in Ashland. Slayers were never to think they were less than they were because in a crucial moment, it was ultimately their downfall. Dean would never claim to be the smartest guy, but he had understood the correlation with past Slayers' deaths and their will. A hunter's will could reach its peak, but a Slayer's will could be limitless and powerful.

"Yeah," Jo murmured, snapping Dean from his thoughts of ascending. "I get that. I mean… I'm starting to get that."

"Guys…!" Sam's voice interrupted their conversation. Dean looked over at his brother to find him and Tracee staring at the laptop's screen. "I just got the email," he announced. Hurriedly, Dean and Jo made their way over. On either side of them, they peered at the laptop as Sam clicked on the attachment in his email from Ash. Tracee hadn't removed herself from Sam's lap, so she had a good view of all the names that had suddenly popped up on the screen. She sighed heavily when Sam's scrolling went on too long. "It's a hundred and fifty seven names." He, too, sighed. "Even if we narrow it down with charges, it could still be a lot."

"A lot is too many stiffs to dig up," Dean remarked, unhappily.

"Wait…" Sam stopped scrolling. He clicked on a particular name, highlighting it. "Herman Webster Mudgett." Tracee made an inquisitive noise. "Wasn't that H.H. Holmes' real name?"

"You've gotta be  _kidding_  me!" Dean took the laptop and sat down at the table to confirm his brother's inquiry.

"H.H. Holmes…? You know the wanker's real name?" Tracee asked.

"I'm surprised you don't," Sam commented.

"Oh, I always referred to him as 'Not Sherlock' or 'Bizarro Sherlock.' That was his real name according to my teenaged self," Tracee shrugged. Her boyfriend chuckled. Of course, the nerd would find that funny. "But it'd make sense if it's him. Not that kidnapping and killing blondes is  _so_  unique."

"Who  _is_  this guy?" Jo questioned.

"History goes that he is America's first serial killer," Tracee answered, absentmindedly twisting a bit of Sam's hair. "Back then, serial killing hadn't been a thing. At least, no one had gotten caught for it yet. But when he was put on trial for the murder of one person, he ended up confessing to a lot more."

" _Twenty seven_  more murders," Sam confirmed. "But some put the death toll at over a hundred."

"And like Trace said, his victim flavor of choice happened to be pretty, petite blondes," Dean said, still reading the article he found on the guy. "He,  _uh_ … used chloroform to kill them… which is what I smelled in the hallway last night."

" _Uh_ , question…! Why do you know what that smells like?" Tracee asked.

"Not important," Dean retorted, voice higher than necessary. He cleared his throat and continued reading, ignoring Tracee's suspicious eyes. "At Holmes' place, cops found human remains, bone fragments, and long locks of bloody blonde hair." He shifted his sight to Jo. "Boy, you sure know how to pick them."

"Well, now we know who he is, so we can get rid of him by burning his bones," she said.

"It's not that easy," Sam said. "His body is buried in town, but it's encased in a couple tons of concrete."

"What?  _Why_?" Jo questioned.

"Because he was afraid someone would dig up his body and violate  _him_ —the balls on this guy, right?" Tracee replied.

" _Uh_ … We might have a bigger problem than that," Sam mentioned. He tapped Tracee's side, causing her to stand from his lap. He went through the things on the table, clearing in search of something. Finding it, his fingers remained on a photograph. "Holmes built an apartment building in Chicago. They called it the  _Murder Castle_. The whole place was a death factory. They had trap doors, acid vats, quicklime pits. He built these secret chambers… inside the walls. He'd lock his victims in—keep them alive for days—suffocate some of them. Others, he'd let starve to death."

"… So Teresa could still be alive," Jo translated. "She could be inside  _these_  walls."

"We've gotta smash these walls then," Dean said, standing up. "Anywhere thick enough to hide a girl."

"Wait," Tracee halted his advance. "That's not right. She's not here."

"How do you know?" Sam asked.

"Despite this being a ghost,  _Not Sherlock_  is still a serial killer. Serial killers are predictable. They fall into a routine, and don't stray from that—it's part of their compulsions," Tracee explained. "Over the last eighty years, girls have gone missing from this building. However, nothing indicates foul play. Nothing. Not even… a complaint about a foul odor. Assuming those girls were the victims of Not Sherlock, keeping them here would be a big risk. Not to mention, inside the walls isn't exactly roomy enough. Most serial killers have a  _secondary_  location so they can do what they do without worry or interruptions. And a guy like that with that type of preference would want to take his time. No—this is his hunting ground. She's not here."

"What about the  _Murder Castle_? Could he have taken them there?" Jo questioned.

"Maybe, but it'd be the same thing since the place is a post office now," Sam stated. "Not secluded enough, but…" He trailed off, fingers rummaging through the papers on the table again. He found a blueprint and laid it on top of everything else. "If you look at the layout, there's other torture chambers inside the walls, right? But there's one we haven't considered yet. The one in his basement."

"It's a lot more secluded," Tracee said. "But surely the post office would end up using that, too, right?"

"Right, so if we go by this guy's M.O., the secondary location must be  _underneath_  the hunting ground," Sam replied.

"This building doesn't have a basement," Dean stated.

"You're right. It doesn't," he agreed. "But I just remembered this." Sam's finger pointed at the blueprint, directing the attention to a network. "Beneath the foundation, it looks like part of an old sewer system. It hasn't been used in so long, most people probably don't realize it's there. I'd say it's pretty much the perfect spot."

"Good enough for me. Let's go find an entrance," Jo said, grabbing her jacket and heading towards the door. Sam and Tracee moved to follow, and Dean found himself doing the same. Huh. Something had definitely changed about her. Taking charge, and expecting no lip. Dean couldn't deny that it was impressive. It looked good on her.

 

0-0

 

They must have looked like quite the group to the average bystander. Three of them, shadowing Sam, who held a metal detector. The taller of the Winchester was focused almost completely on his task. Tracee, directly behind him, held her sword—katana—by its hilt, having had slid the object through her side belt loop beforehand. She was focused, too, but more so on making sure Sam wouldn't run into anything, again, while they searched. Jo and Dean tailed after, both holding shovels. The older Winchester also had an old holdall bag, which held shotguns, primed and ready with rock salt. With the sun high in the sky, the group of four continued searching for buried manholes. So far, nothing.

Sam suddenly veered into an alleyway, taking them away from the populated street. He took another turn, bringing them to a small empty lot. The grass barely had any green left. Jo looked up, noticing that the apartment building was still in sight. "Here," Sam announced, drawing her attention again. The metal detector's squeal indicated that had found something big. Dean removed the bag from his shoulder, dropping it to the ground. He then stuck the shovel deep to begin digging. Jo prepared to do the same, but Tracee caught her attention.

Her fellow Slayer held out her hand. In her palm, there was a simple black hair tie. "Thanks," Jo took the offered accessory, and then began pulling her hair back into a ponytail. They were heading into an old sewer line after digging up an entrance. Things were bound to get messy. Tracee, too, held her dark hair back into a ponytail. Once done, Jo picked up her shovel and began digging alongside of Dean. Sam and Tracee stood on standby, on the lookout for those who might stumble across them. It probably wasn't necessary as this particular alley had a dead end.

They dug for several minutes until Jo's shovel hit something hard. The clang of the impact cause Dean to stop digging as well. Throwing their shovels aside, they dropped to their knees to swipe at the dirt. They found latches to a manhole. "Jackpot," Dean said, gripping one of the handles. Jo nodded as her fingers curled around the other. "Got it…?" She gave him a look. "Right—asking the wrong person." With a grunt, he began to pull. With minimal effort, Jo also pulled, easily lifting the door to the manhole. "Showoff," Dean muttered as Jo slipped her hand into her pocket for a small flashlight.

Shaking her head, yet smirking, she turned on the light and shined it down into the manhole. Critters raced away from the both the natural and artificial lights. A chill went through her as she examined the hole. " _Eww_ …!" Tracee shuddered, also looking down. "Do I  _have_  to go in there?"

"Trace, now is not the time," Dean remarked. The shorter woman faked a sob, but Dean ignored her. "Ladies first," he said, gesturing into the hole. Jo stood a deep breath before positioning herself to go down. As she moved, she saw that Sam gave his brother a larger flashlight and kept one for himself. A shotgun was also given. Tracee did not take either a flashlight or a gun. Jo stuck the end of her flashlight in her mouth before descending into the dark. Tracee followed after her. Sam came next, and then Dean.

They climbed down for quite a bit until Jo finally came across a tunnel. Realizing how small and cramped the tunnel was, she let out a sigh. Apparently, they would be crawling. Eventually, they would hit a spot where they could move comfortably, but for now, it was on all fours. Jo led the way, flashlight in hand. Several groans of displeasure came from her fellow Slayer as she followed behind. If they were feeling cramped, Jo could only imagine how Dean and Sam were feeling. And poor Sam—he had to deal with all this with a cast on, and yet it was Dean who was griping.

Just as she was about to tell him to shut up, a ringtone beat her to the punch. Everyone stopped moving, listening to the ringing. "Crap," Dean muttered, realizing that it was coming from him. Grumbling to himself, Jo could hear him trying to maneuver his cell phone from his pocket. Somewhat annoyed, she waited. The ringing stopped. "Yeah…?" he greeted. "… Ellen!" The squeak of her mom's name caused Jo to flinch. Really?  _Now_? " _Uh_ … She's gonna have to call you back. She's,  _uh_ … taking care of… feminine business."

"Really?!" Jo and Tracee hissed in unison. They were ignored as Dean continued to converse with Ellen Harvelle. Ash must have run his mouth. When she got her hands on him… "Definitely using pliers," Jo muttered darkly.

"Now's not a good time," Dean stated. "We're in the middle of hunting this thing… No, she's fine! I promise nothing will happen to her… What…? … It won't! I won't let it! Besides, it's not like she needs-" For a few seconds, he stopped speaking. "Ellen…? Ellen?! Damn it!" Apparently, her mother, having heard enough, had hung up on him. "Great, now your mom's pissed at me.  _Awesome_."

"Well, at least she can't smack you upside the head from where she is," Tracee reasoned.

"Yeah… about that… She's flying out."

"Prepare yourself to be smacked then," she teased, causing the older brother to snap at her. Tracee only chuckled, not at all bothered by his fuming.

"Just what I need," Jo retorted sarcastically. " _Thanks_ , Dean." His grumbles were ignored in favor of continuing down the narrow tunnel. They really needed to pick up the pace. She knew that her mom would drop everything to come to Philadelphia. The four forged ahead for a time, and then Jo abruptly stopped. Her flashlight had made out an opening up ahead, but what had stopped her had been the revolting presence she had sensed. It chilled her, crawling through her skin to her veins. Jo recognized it as the same presence she had felt in the apartment building, only this time, it was intense.

"Oh,  _God_ …!" Tracee whispered, disgust in her voice.

"What? What is it?" Sam questioned.

"We're close," Jo answered. Biting her lip, she began moving again. Despite the overwhelming presence of the malicious spirit, she crawled until she made it out of the tunnel. Her feet hit the ground, the beam of light already surveying the area. With a grunt, Tracee landed beside her, taking in the surroundings. Her fingers gripped her katana, slipping the weapon from the belt loop. Like the blueprint had indicated, the chamber seemed to be an octagon shape. Jo tilted her head, having spotted a rusted metal gate, gesturing towards the right. Tracee nodded, and then they both moved towards the entrance to the chamber. As they stood on either side, Jo swallowed hard, clicking off her flashlight. She slid it into her pocket before slowly pulling her father's blade out of her jacket. She could so clearly feel the spirit now. Obviously, he was right inside, which meant Teresa had to be, too.

Jo leaned, looking inside the chamber. She spotted the spirit, Not Sherlock, hands seemingly passing through a wall. He was elbows deep, and completely unaware of them, probably too distracted. Her eyes narrowed, guessing that he was in the midst of torturing Teresa. Clenching her teeth, Jo gripped the handle of the blade, clutching it close to her chest. Dean and Sam quietly crawled out of the tunnel, joining them on either side. Older with her, younger with Tracee. Her fellow Slayer met her eye. Jo nodded her head, and Tracee lifted her hand, fingers deftly, and silently, twisting the rusted metal, allowing the leverage to open it.

"Hey…!" Jo shouted, gaining his attention. The spirit sharply turned, facing her. She sharply flung the blade from her hand. It embedded deep into his eye, causing a roar of pain to echo throughout the chamber. "How do you like  _that_?!" The creature vanished in a swirl of ashes. "Pure iron, you creepy-ass son of a bitch!" It might have been a memento, but it was still useful. Mentally, she thanked her father as she moved inside the chamber. "Teresa…!" she called, dropping down to pick up the blade.

Coughing and gasping could be heard where Not Sherlock's arms had been. Tracee hurriedly made her way over just as Jo stood to her full height. They both examined the compartment, which looked as though it was just big enough to fit a body. Bloody fingers slowly slipped out of the small opening. Teresa had been imprisoned, but she was alive. "Hey," Tracee said. "We're here to rescue you." Her hand found a latch, unlocking the prison. Jo wasted no time in lifting the compartment's door.

"I-Is h-he gone?" Teresa stammered out, as she slid out of the prison. She held onto Tracee, visibly shivering, made even more noticeable with Dean approached, shining his flashlight on her. The woman was a mess—dirty, bloody, and obviously scared out of her mind. She had only been gone a few hours, but the trauma had definitely set in. Jo bit her lip, choosing not to answer.

"Get her out of here," she ordered. The answer, simply put, was a hard no. Jo could feel the heavy presence, crackling unpleasantly against her skin. The iron may have warded him away for a time, but that time was quickly dwindling. Dean looked at her, and Jo almost thought he would protest, but he only nodded his head, urging the scared woman along back towards where they had come in. Sam busied himself by checking the other compartments for other girls, but… no. The one before Teresa had been taken three weeks ago. There was no way she could have survived for so long down here.

Then, without warning, all at once, the presence came back full force. Concentrated, manifested right beside her. Jo had no time to react. Let alone defend. She took the full brunt of a backhand, which sent her crashing into a wall, a few feet from the floor. The impact jarred her brain and rattled her senses. Panic seized her, spreading throughout her core, made worse by the dirty hand clamping around her lower face. Eyes wide, she stared into the face of H. H. Holmes as he cut off her airways. Nose and mouth covered, Jo realized that she couldn't breathe and that she had dropped her father's blade. "Slayer…!" the spirit snarled in her face.

"Jo…! Damn it!" Dean's voice caught her ears, but she was rapidly losing oxygen. Her arms came up, fingers curling around the spirit's wrist, but he did not release her. "I can't get a good shot!"

"Me either!" Sam's voice exclaimed.

"Bloody hell!"

Just as dark spots began appearing her vision, Jo saw the sheath of Tracee's katana come into view. With a yank, it smacked against the spirit's throat. With a cry of surprise, Not Sherlock was ripped away. Despite the air being unclean, Jo welcomed the oxygen that rushed to her lungs now that her mouth and nose were no longer covered. She watched as the spirit backed up and slammed Tracee against the opposite wall. Sam called her name, outraged at the sight of his girlfriend crumbling to the ground.

Using the wall as leverage, Jo threw herself at the spirit. She twisted her body, on the ball of her left foot, to viciously swing her right fist. She returned the earlier backhand tenfold, causing the spirit's body to soar away from standing position above Tracee. But Jo wasn't done. She charged after him, rearing her fist back. She pelted his body with punches. Then followed the barrage with a sharp kick to the abdomen. Not Sherlock crashed into the wall behind him. Jo went at him again, lifting her leg in a high kick. To her irritation, her foot went right though the spirit's head and collided against the wall. "Pretty little Slayer," he taunted. "You can't hurt me."

His fist shot forward, catching her mouth. Jo felt herself flying through the air again. This time, however, she flipped, instead landing on her feet beside an awestruck Dean. The creepy bastard was right, of course. No matter how hard she punched or how long the fight was drawn out, the fact remained that Not Sherlock was already dead. Scowling, Jo glanced at Dean, and then hurriedly wretched the shotgun away from his hands. With one hand, she cocked the shotgun. Then keeping her aim steady, she pulled the trigger. The blast of rock salt nailed the spirit in the chest. He was knocked off his feet, and with a dramatic wail of 'No…!' the spirit disappeared out of sight.

In the silence that followed, Jo realized that the presence had dissipated. The rock salt had done the trick, and she could no longer feel the spirit. He would be back, of course, but it would take longer for him to recover from that blast. It would give them ample time to escape the sewers and get Teresa to safety. "Let's get the hell outta here before he comes back," she said, heading towards the door they had entered.

"Actually, I don't think you're going anywhere just yet, badass," Dean spoke up. Jo furrowed her brow, turning her gaze to the older Winchester. He took the gun away from her. His movements were almost cautious, but the look of wonder hadn't left his expression. "You were right about being the bait. That's what we've got to do now." Jo narrowed her eyes, glanced at the other occupants in the chamber—Sam had stood by Tracee's side while Teresa shivered near the gate—and then returned her attention back to Dean. As she listened to his plan, she couldn't help but be impressed by it. She cracked a smile. Unorthodox, but any orthodox method couldn't be used this time around since the bones weren't accessible. Dean's plan was the next best thing. He definitely wasn't like any other hunter.

"You  _clever_  boy," Jo commended. Dean grinned at her, causing heat to rush to her cheeks. She pursed her lips, and tried to will that reaction away. "Okay, let's get Teresa out first."

"You got it, Slayer," Dean replied. This time, she didn't try to hide her pleased smile.

Jo had to admit; it had a nice ring.

 

0-0

 

"So…" Tracee began from her spot on the bed. Jo blinked once, having just come out of the half bath to discover her fellow Slayer. The bedroom door had been shut. Only a few hours after trapping the ghost of H.H. Holmes in that ring of salt, and cover the sewer's entrance with cement, the four had gotten back to the apartment building. To pack, and to shower because they had all smelled awful. Teresa had been returned to her apartment. The woman had been so grateful that she had offered to buy them dinner. She hadn't even faltered about how much she had to spend either. It had felt good. Not just saving the woman, but also making sure that Not Sherlock wouldn't be hurting anyone else. "I know what you told Samuel… but level with me, Slayer to Slayer, how was it?" Tracee questioned.

Biting her lower lip, Jo walked forward. She plopped down next to Tracee. "It was  _amazing_ ," she confessed. "I've never felt anything like it." Her fellow Slayer chuckled lightly. Jo hadn't told Sam the entire truth when he had asked. Yes, she had been glad that Teresa had been rescued, but the thrill of the fight had been the glamourous part of it. She had been scared, just for a moment, but afterwards… Jo clenched her teeth. Just thinking about it caused a shiver to run through her. Real action… excited her to her very core. "Is it going to be like that every time?"

"Just wait until you actually slay something—feels real good," Tracee said. "But you don't have to be embarrassed about it. It's normal for us." Jo slowly nodded her head. "You've got to remember something, though," she continued. "We let you take on Not Sherlock, mostly by yourself. I think it's something we should all do—handle a fight by ourselves. To really reinforce what we are. However, it shouldn't be that way all the time."

"What do you mean?" Jo questioned.

"I honestly think we aren't meant to be alone," Tracee said. "Out of all our predecessors, only a few of us have reached adulthood."

"You're talking about the one that activated us? And the one that had a child?"

" _Shyeah_ , they had support. They survived longer because they had support," she confirmed. "See, we might be the powerhouses, but it means nothing if there's no support, no connections keeping us grounded, keeping us alive. If you truly want this life, Jo-" The younger Slayer almost let out a gasp of surprise. That had been the first time Tracee had called her by her real name. Well, her nickname, but still. It had mattered that she hadn't gotten the name wrong. Tracee, seemingly not caring about the shift continued. "-you can't do it alone. No matter what happens, don't slay alone."

"Okay," Jo said. "I see the benefits."

"Good… Keep my number,  _sister_ ," Tracee said. Jo smiled. Despite the initial hostility between them—well, it had been mostly on her part; Tracee had seemed mostly indifferent—things had lightened up quite a bit since they had worked a case together. It was almost funny, really. Jo had been hoping to get closer to Dean, but ended up feeling a lot closer to the older Slayer instead. "I'll text you the Madam's number later, too. She knows a lot about Slayers, so if you're ever curious, you could contact her." The 'Madam' happened to Missouri Moseley, a psychic and ally. Before, Tracee had mentioned her in passing, but apparently, she was a helpful source.

"Don't play games with me, Dean Winchester! You tell me where the hell my daughter is!"

Jo found herself wincing, recognizing the voice of her mother. She looked towards the closed bedroom door, frowning at what was to come. Although she had been expecting her, Jo would honestly choose to fight another ghost than deal with the hurricane that was Ellen Harvelle. Sighing lightly, she glanced at Tracee. The older Slayer merely shrugged, and then stood up from the bed. Guess there was no stalling anymore. Once again, she had the face the storm. Jo stood up, following Tracee to the door.

As soon as the door opened, three heads swiveled in their direction. Grimacing, Jo walked forward. Her mother's hardened gaze focused on her, and then grew wide, a soft murmur of 'Oh my God' on her lips. She had probably just noticed the bruise on her cheek and the split lip. The signs of battle would probably be gone before the night was over, but they were eyesores. There was also a large bruise on her back. "Mom," Jo greeted. The glare came back full force. "You're angry. I understand."

"Angry? Angry doesn't  _begin_  to touch it!" her mother retorted.

"Ellen… Please don't be mad," Dean attempted to calm the situation. "I lied to you, and I'm sorry. But Jo did a hellava job. You should be proud. I think her dad would be proud, too."

"Don't you  _dare_  say that—not  _you_!" Jo jerked in surprised by how hostile her mother was being towards Dean. She had every right to be angry, but to focus it on him? That had honestly been out of the blue. "I need a moment with my daughter…  _alone_."

"Mom…!" Jo protested.

"Now, you listen to me, Joanna Beth! You do  _not_  have the sense to do this job! You are not a hunter!"

"No!" she exclaimed, nearly shouting. Her mother looked surprised by the outburst. " _No_ , mom! I have the  _best_ sense to do this job! But you're  _right_ … I'm not a hunter." Her insides vibrated with anxiety, but she couldn't keep this within herself anymore. She wouldn't. Jo looked away for a second, and then released a heavy sigh before returning her focus back to her mother. "There's something that I haven't told you… The real reason I quit school. Something happened to me back in 2003." Her mother's face scrunched up in confusion. "Only Ash knew until now. I… changed."

" _What_ …? What are you talking about?"

Jo swallowed hard. "I was never meant to be a hunter. I know that now," she accepted. "I may have been naïve for a while, but… but I have decided that this is what I want to do. This life is what I have chosen. Not to be a hunter, but to be what I was activated for. I'm going to do this because..." Jo walked away, heading towards the living room area. She noticed the confused stares she was receiving from most of them. Tracee, however, had her arms folded over her chest, lips tugging upward in a smile. Honestly, it made Jo feel better about what she was about to do. Taking a deep breath, she dropped down, fingers curling around the bottom of the couch.

"What are you doing?!" her mother demanded to know, clearly exasperated.

"Showing you what I am," Jo retorted. Again, her mother frowned, not understanding. She would, though. In time. Gritting her teeth, the young Slayer stood to her full height, lifting the couch with her. It wasn't heavy at all, and so she lifted it high above her head. With only one hand. Her eyes looked towards her mother. Her face had gone pale at the sight of her tiny daughter doing something that not even the strongest human male could do. "I'm Joanna Harvelle," she continued, and then tossed the couch to right, clear across the room. " _The_   _Vampire Slayer_."

Ellen Harvelle promptly fainted.

0-0


	30. Foresight & Taste

She was floating.

Or maybe she was sinking. In the void of darkness, there was no up or down. No side to side. With her eyes opened, she saw that she was surrounded by the dark. In the middle of nowhere, there was only drifting. Time didn't exist, and so she did not know how long she had been caught in the in between. "I'm cold," she suddenly whispered, shutting her eyes. Despite the biting hiss that had jumped from her lips, she made no move to wrap her arms around herself. She only shut her eyes, accepting the dark. Her teeth clenched, and suddenly she knew she was falling. Falling backwards with her hair smacking against her cheeks, she moved through the darkness faster than before.

"You're not supposed to be."

Her eyes shot open, a sharp intake of air filling her lungs. Then, slowly, her body shifted upright. Her descent ended, and her bare feet lightly touched something solid. It felt warm. A frown tugged at her lips as her gaze darted to and fro, taking in the surrounding darkness. She had recognized that voice. Just a hint of accusing, the passible British accent had been familiar. "What do you mean, Tracee?" she asked, turning her head to the left, and then right, in order to locate the shorter woman. She could not get a lock on her.

"You should be preparing," Tracee's voice echoed all around her. Her tone had become bored. "No more of that nomadic shit. Tick tock goes the clock."

"Preparing…?" she repeated, knitting her brow together. "For what?"

"Our Champions…" a new voice told her.

"Or our Destroyers…" another voice said.

Both voices belonged to women. She looked around again. Two women—a blonde and a brunette. She had never seen them before. They were ahead of her, standing idly by as though waiting. Narrowing her eyes, she moved forward in their direction. Their gazes remained straight ahead even as she moved pass their still bodies. "Salvation. Destruction—we stand, once again, before the turn of the century," Tracee's voice continued. It hadn't echoed. Turning her head right, she realized that Tracee walked beside her. With her hands clasped behind her, she did not return the look. Just continued moving, nonchalant in her expression. "No longer faces in the crowd, we march. But tick tock goes the clock... and all that rot."

The Slayer halted, dropping her arms to her sides. She tilted her head, still staring straight ahead. Slowly, she, too, turned her focus in front of her. Their reflections returned the stares. "We're running out of time?" she questioned. Tracee hummed thoughtfully. Through the mirror like wall, she saw the shorter woman reach forward. Her index pressed against the surface. It moved liked disturbed water under her touch, and then shattered like glass. A few shards sliced into her cheek, but she paid no mind, even as blood seeped through the cut.

"For what it's worth," a new, familiar, voice caught her attention. She turned to her right again. Tracee had been replaced by Sam. He wore a short cut dress, fit for someone of his stature. Blue and shimmery with spaghetti straps. "I am sorry." She blinked once, and then focused on blood running down his chin. It appeared to come from his mouth. "It's time to start the countdown. We're gonna burn it all." For several moments, he merely stared down at her. The surroundings suddenly shifted. They were now outside, standing on the edge of a cliff. Below them was a gorge. As bright as the sun made it, she couldn't see the bottom of the pit. "Up here and untouchable, you're safe. But where's the fun in that?"

"You look like a moose," she told him.

"Thank you, my queen," Sam replied with probably the worst British accent he could muster. Or maybe it hadn't meant to be British. He gave mocking bow before straightening up. "Lose control just once. Let us in, so we can burn. Don't miss the fun." His voice had returned to normal. Then he abruptly shoved her off the cliff.  She fell, listening to Sam's echoing voice. "Tick tock. Tick tock. Tick tock."

Then without warning, she was caught by strong arms. The impact hurt and she gasped as her body bent backwards. After a moment, she caught her breath and snapped her eyes open. She was met by the bluest eyes she had ever seen. "Oh… You. Who are you?" she questioned. He held her tightly, expression neutral. He shined bright like the moon on a clear night. "I know you. Who are you?" She was set down on solid ground, but she couldn't tear her gaze away from the man in front of her. His hands squeezed her sides. A shudder coursed through her, and she was almost certain his blue eyes shifted to a familiar shade of green.

"I'll watch you shine. And when the time comes," he said, voice deep and abrasive. "Yours." The simple word fell from his lips, but it was another's voice. Or… maybe a mix of voices. He then lifted his left hand only to plunge it deep into her stomach. She gagged and wheezed as the air left her lungs, and then rapidly returned, along with a burning sensation. "Tick tock goes the clock until the second coming." With a hard yank, he pulled out his hand, squeezing something solid, long, and illuminated.

She threw back her head and screamed.

 

0-0

 

With a shriek, she bolted upright, eyes wide and hands immediately going for her belly. Fingers frantically clawed at the large t-shirt before finding skin. Smooth skin. After several tense seconds, her mind caught up, no longer caught between dream and reality. Blinking rapidly, her sight adjusted to the dim lighting in her room. The light came from the morning sun. She looked around once, and then released a heavy sigh. With a roll of her eyes, she fell back, head hitting the pillow harder than necessary. For a moment, she just laid there, staring up at her ceiling. She had had bizarre dreams before, but Slayer dreams were just plain awful. That one, in particular, had been different. Even as she laid perfectly still, her heart still thundered in her chest.

Cassie could remember the last time she had woke up like this. She lifted her hands, pressing both palms against her face. The last time, the heart-racing dream had predicted being Dean being seriously hurt. She should not have ignored it because lo and behold, a month later he had ended up in a hospital. Then again, there was no stopping Slayer premonitions. According to Missouri, their visions came from too powerful of a source. The sight were warnings, but they also couldn't be stopped. Ridiculous, really. What good were the bizarre dreams if one couldn't do anything about it? With a sigh, Cassie lowered her hands, and then sat up. Still, she had gotten into the habit of writing down her strange dreams, so might as well hop to it before the images went away.

Swiping at the bedspread that covered her legs, she slid off the bed in the same motion. She took a deep breathe before stretching her arms up high. Then she tugged down her t-shirt and headed over to the left side of the room where her desk was located. Sitting down on the chair, Cassie immediately opened the middle drawer of the white desk. Since she had encountered Tracee, she had been keeping a dream journal. Honestly, as a child, she had kept something similar. Instead of a diary, she had used pages and ink to jot down strange dreams. That journal had been lost after she had gone to college, along with several other childhood things. Or maybe they were still in her mother's attic. Either way, Cassie hadn't bothered to look for it. Maybe some of the dreams she had had as a child had been Slayer dreams as well…?

It didn't matter right now, though. Cassie lifted the spiral notebook, and then flipped the pages until she came across a blank sheet. She set the notebook down on the desk, and then grabbed a bedazzled pen from the utensil cup. With her head propped up by her hand, elbow against the surface of the desk, she began writing. Narrowing her eyes, she idly wondered if she should call Missouri about this particular dream. Out of all the bizarre dreams, this one seemed to be in a league of its own. Still, the older woman had been adept so far. Maybe she could translate Slayer dreams, too?

"But…" Cassie murmured out loud. "Why was Sam in a dress…?" Tracee had recently admitted to her that the thought of her boyfriend in a short cut dress happened to be a turn on for her. At the time, Cassie had laughed loudly, but maybe that had bled into her Slayer dream. That couldn't have actually  _meant_  anything, right? Still, she wrote it down, not wanting to leave anything out. Speaking of her friend, she was supposed to be coming today. Cassie stopped writing, eyeing the large bag that lay next to the bedroom door. She had packed a few days ago in preparation for their little road trip. The day had finally come to head to Indiana.

She had finally taken vacation—an entire week off. A lot of her coworkers had been shocked. Normally, she had to be forced to use vacation hours. She and Tracee would use it in order to gather information from a person of interest. Her fellow Slayer had seemed excited about both the questioning of a suspect and the girl's trip. Well… Maybe Cassie was just a bit excited, too. They hadn't seen each other in person for quite a long time. And this time, their reunion wouldn't be so marred with uncertainty and distress.  _Hm_. Not as much, anyway. Not overwhelming uncertainty, at least.

Just as Cassie began to think back to those horrid circumstances, that caused her chest to seize with bitter pangs, she heard the doorbell ringing. She frowned a bit, not expecting company this early in the morning. Dropping her pen, she stood up and headed for her bedroom door. She walked through the house, nearing the entrance just as the doorbell rang again. Without looking, Cassie opened the front door. She was greeted by three familiar faces. "Bestie," the shortest of the trio smiled. Then her line of sight drifted down. " _Nice_  legs," Tracee complimented.

"Hey, Cassie…" Sam greeted. His eyesight elsewhere, he cleared his throat. Pursing her lips, Cassie tugged at the hem of her shirt, which didn't seem as long as it had last night. The shirt barely covered her thighs, and she had opened her door in nothing but her t-shirt and panties. Fortunately, it had only been these three and not a delivery man. Dean, unashamed, stared at her thighs, not attempting to hide his grin. Huff on her lips, Cassie opened the door wider.

"I thought you wouldn't be here until around ten," she said.

"It's near noon," Tracee stated. Carrying a large red bag, she seemed prepared for the stay. Her katana was also tucked between her arm and side. "We stopped to get breakfast. I tried calling to tell you that, but you didn't answer." Furrowing her brow, Cassie turned her head, eyes focusing on the grandfather clock in the dining room. Sure enough, it read fifteen minutes before the hour. "Long night…?"

"I don't think so," Cassie replied. She shrugged, taking a few steps back so that her guests could come in. "Make yourselves comfortable. I'll be out in a minute." Tracee nodded her head, and then stepped over the threshold, followed closely by the Winchester brothers. Turning her back to them, she began her way back towards her bedroom. Honestly, she hadn't realized she had slept so late. Yawning a bit, Cassie shut her door, and then proceeded to look more presentable.

After about thirty minutes, she found herself drinking tea in the living room. It had done wonders in actually waking her up. There had been idle pleasantries and the standard how are yous, but it had been short. Basically, they were all fine—given the loss of John Winchester—and they were still doing what they did. Hunting, and such. After chit chat, they cut to the chase. Tracee would spend the week and the boys would come retrieve her next week, making sure to call ahead of time. Under the courtesy, Dean had made it obvious the phone call would be a forewarning. Sam had remained unconcerned by it, so he was still in the dark to the truth of this reunion.

Now, he and Tracee were outside, standing on the porch and exchanging goodbyes. They had been exchanging goodbyes for about five minutes now. Cassie calmly sipped her tea, choosing not to spy on them through the sheer purple curtains. Dean, on the couch, pretended to drink his tea. At least he hadn't tried to dump the liquid in one of her plants again. It was amusing, watching his face twist every time he brought the glass cup to his lips. Maybe she was being petty. Cassie knew full well the man hadn't liked tea despite telling Tracee otherwise that one time. But he was being polite. The two of them had lapsed into a silence, waiting for Sam and Tracee to come back in.

Dean suddenly broke the silence by clearing his throat. He set the glass down on the wooden table. Cassie eyed him from her spot on the comfy chair, wondering what he would say now that they were alone. "You'd think they'd come up for air by now," he feigned annoyance. Cassie hid her amused smile with the rim of her glass, but he must have noticed her crinkled eyes because he grinned at her. She was surprised at how… easy this was. Honestly, she thought it would be uncomfortable. But no... She supposed that might have something to do with seeing Dean at his most vulnerable. Those three days at that man's house—Bobby Singer—had been unexpectedly enlightening and the most intimate they had ever gotten with each other. The most he had allowed her to see without making a joke, or... Well, he hadn't shut that proverbial door.

" _I_  think they're cute," Cassie admitted with a slight shrug.

" _You_  don't have to worry about walking in on their love fest if they're left alone too long," Dean retorted, playfully.

" _Has_  it happened?"

"Not yet, but the day is coming." He seemed so dismayed at the thought that he couldn't stop his lower lip from poking out. More than a little amused now, Cassie let out a chuckle. She did not try to hide her smile this time, choosing to place her glass on the table as well. "So, listen… Just in case I haven't said it enough already, thank you for doing this, Cassie," Dean said. "I know… this sorta thing's outside your comfort zone. So you doing this means a lot." Prickles of heat crawled across her skin. She felt herself flush in discomfort. He had no idea just how inside her comfort zone supernatural information gathering had become to her. Maybe one day she would tell him… about her hobby, at least. For now, she plastered on a smile, hoping it didn't appear tight or nervous.

"It's okay," Cassie told him. "I know the stakes are high. The reward could be just enough to get in front of this." She shrugged lightly. "Besides, I'm good at finding the truth. It's what I get paid for." Dean showed his teeth in a smile, and she couldn't help but mirror his expression. Yeah. This was easier than expected. The front door suddenly opened, prompting Cassie to stand from the chair. Dean also stood up to face Tracee and Sam. Apparently, the two had finally finished. "Ready…?" she asked, slightly sarcastic.

"I believe so," Tracee replied, matching her tone. "Don't get into too much trouble in my absence." Her words were directed at Dean, who had the nerve to look offended. Tracee narrowed her eyes, and he wisely threw his hands up in surrender.

"I can't promise anything, Trace. Gotta do something to pass the time," he said.

"Trouble finds you both with or without me. I'm just saying don't get into  _too_  much," Tracee explained. "Now, off you go. Girl time starts now." At her words, Dean grinned widely, and then stepped towards her to give her a hug. Cassie watched, curious as he told her to be careful. The embrace seemed natural like they had done it so many times before. She pressed her lip together, trying to stifle her smile, as the two parted. Tracee turned to hug her boyfriend, and Sam lightly pressed a kiss to the top of her head. Obviously, the three had gotten even closer since the last time Cassie had seen them interact.

Once their farewells were through, the two brothers left the house, closing the door behind them. Cassie and Tracee watched them climb into the black Impala, and continued watching until the car had gone down the street. Once the vehicle turned a corner, they turned their attention to one another. "Thought they'd never leave," Cassie remarked, and then began removing her shirt. She had already put on yoga pants, so no need to change. The sight of her dark purple sports bra caused Tracee to lift her right brow.

"So eager," she commented, and then took off her shirt. She, too, wore a sports bra underneath. Then Tracee kicked off her shoes and pushed down her jeans. Her legs were covered with skin tight black sports pants. "I can't wait to see how much better you've gotten,  _sister_."

"You want to use weapons?"

" _Yes_ , please…! I saw a Warhammer the first time I was here."

 

0-0

 

_I don't want no scrub_

_A scrub is a guy that can't get no love from me_

_Hanging out the passenger side of his best friend's ride_

_Trying to holla at me…_

Giggle on her lips, Cassie turned down the volume. Sitting in the passenger seat, Tracee grinned. The two Slayers had been on the road for quite some time on their road trip to Indiana, having just finished a great duo. Actually, it had been awful, but that had been the reason it had been so fun. Neither had the voices of angels, and wouldn't be winning any singing competitions soon. "Okay, so we're about an hour away," Cassie began, glancing at Tracee from the corner of her eye. "I would have liked to contact Scott as soon as possible, but it'd be too late to go to his house, especially unannounced. So we find somewhere to sleep, and then visit him in the morning."

"So what type of person is this guy? Who are we dealing with?" Tracee questioned.

"Well, he lives with his dad," Cassie stated. "He doesn't have a job, and not very sociable. Almost a complete opposite of how it was in high school. Suddenly, he became a recluse, stopped all contact with friends, dropped out of college and quit his part time job. The people I spoke with had no idea what happened him. Last year… he just changed."

"If he's like Samuel, and the other people we've encountered so far, it's not all that surprising," Tracee muttered. "Hell, I know the feeling." Cassie blinked once, realizing the same could be said of all Slayers. Abilities one couldn't possibly understand—not without help—forming out of the blue tended to be life changing. Not wanting anyone to know, it made sense to withdraw. While she hadn't exactly been a social butterfly herself, Cassie quietly admitted to herself that she had drifted away from close relationships after her activation. Friends had become associates. Associates had become just people she knew at the paper. She hadn't wanted to risk anyone finding out about her… and then Tracee had walked into her life. "You think a guy like him will talk to us?"

"Hard to say…" Cassie said. "But I have an in with the dad, at least. We'll go from there." Tracee hummed lightly, tilting her head down in an agreeing nod. "So, hey, actually, I think I had one of our dreams." Her friend perked up in interest. "I was going to call Missouri whenever I got the chance, but since you're here now, I figure I let you know. You were there." Tracee gestured for her to tell her about the bizarre dream, and so Cassie tried her best to describe the images from memory. "… And I was screaming, but it wasn't painful," she finished.

"Yes, yes, interesting…" Tracee said, not at all sounding very interested. "Quick question, though—Samuel was in a dress. Was it just the dress? Or was he full blown drag queen territory? Makeup and heels, and whatnot?"

Cassie let out a sigh. Of course the weird girl would focus on that aspect of the dream. "He was barefoot, and there was no makeup," she answered. Tracee sighed, seemingly in relief. "So you draw the line at drag queen, huh?" A shrug was given in response. "Does he know about your guilty pleasure?"

" _Meh_ , I'll give it a couple more months before I throw it out there," Tracee stated with a nonchalant wave. Cassie shook her head. "For the other things in your dream… I've got to tell you, I'm not too good with Slayer dream translations. Samuel's the one that breaks down my dreams into something plausible. And the last dream I had… I didn't exactly tell him everything…"

"Why not…?"

"He was bleeding from the mouth. I didn't want to alarm him, but seeing as how you're also dreaming about him bleeding from the mouth… we might have to figure out what that means," Tracee confessed. "It's got to be important if we're both dreaming about it. Plus, that whole champion versus destroyers doesn't seem trivial. And you're sure you didn't recognize that last person? That blue or green-eyed man?" Cassie shook her head. She had never laid eyes on someone that looked like him. That was a certainty. Still, there had been something vaguely familiar. "What about that blonde? Did she look young?"

"I don't know—maybe?" Cassie pressed her lips together, narrowing her eyes at the road in front of her and trying to conjure up the image of the woman in her dream. "Probably. Younger than me, I think."

"Maybe it was Jo…?" Tracee suggested. She, of course, had already made mention of the second Slayer she had come across. The girl had been so hellbent on being a hunter that she had brushed aside her Slayer origin initially, which had garnered a less than stellar response from Tracee, and surprisingly Dean. In the end, though, she had done a sort of one eighty, and had proudly declared as Slayer. Apparently, her mother hadn't taken it so well, causing an explosive fight, and an eventual separation. It made Cassie shudder to think if her own mother found out. Jo Harvelle, having had enough, had packed her things, grabbed some genius named Ash, and left her home, seemingly, for good. Tracee had told the tale with a lot more flourish, but the gist of it had been that she and the Winchesters were no longer welcomed at  _Harvelle's_. At least, for a while. "Would you recognize her from a picture?"

"Do you  _have_  a picture?"

"Oh, I guess that  _would_  be a roadblock, huh?" Tracee muttered. Cassie shook her head again, snorting lightly. "We should buy a disposable camera, so we can take pictures," she continued absentmindedly. "Whoever those women were, I'm thinking they're a part of something big that will come in the near, or distant, future."

"God, I don't want to think about it that much right now," Cassie remarked. Honestly, she was hoping that the dream had meant nothing. Or that it only signified meeting other people that might become important to her. There was a chance of that. After all, she had dreamed of Tracee before she knew her, and now they were friends. The dream might have just been another convoluted way of gaining more relationships—nothing more. "Let's just focus on what's in front of us."

"Works for me," Tracee agreed. Then crossed her arms. "For  _now_ , sister."

 

0-0

 

The trip to Lafayette, even with the few pit stops, had been quite the journey, and they hadn't made it until late into the evening. It had been much too late to go someone's house for questions, as Cassie had predicted. Perhaps, they shouldn't have spent so much time sparring with each other? They might have been able to get to the town quicker if they had only stopped at two hours instead of stretching it out to four. Still, it hadn't been that big of shame. They had managed to find a hotel to settle down despite the late hour and last minute reservation. Tracee had happily paid for their dwelling, having been secretly relieved that Cassie hadn't wanted to sleep in a motel. They had stayed up for quite a bit afterwards, eating and talking about random things and their daily lives, before falling asleep.

Now, they were up and prepared to do what they came to this town for. Tracee glanced at her fellow Slayer as she knocked on the door. Cassie already had the information, so finding the address of the local psychic had been quick. The taller woman was composed, and Tracee had to admire her. Though their task wasn't too much out of her skillset, the heart of the matter was essentially foreign to her. Tackling something she wouldn't normally think about would certainly rattle others—not Cassie Robinson. The door to the quaint little house opened, revealing a middle aged man. With a furrowed brow, his gaze darted back and forth between the two of them.

"Can I help you?" he questioned.

"Yes, Mr. Carey, my name is Cassie—we spoke on the phone." Recognition showed in the man's eyes. Cassie gestured towards her partner. "This is Tracee. She's shadowing me, but I'll be the one writing the article. Is this a good time?" The 'in' was that a local paper wanted to write about former high school athletes. Apparently, Scott Carey had a full-ride scholarship based on his time as a basketball player. The so-called article would be based on if scholarships were actually deterrents for kids wanting to strive for better things. The cause and effect of handing out things like that. Journalism.  _Ugh_. Tracee had to take a class while in high school. She hadn't particularly enjoyed it, but she had gone through a sort of rebellious phase in her youth, and working on the school paper had been preferable to practicing  _kata_  at home. That sure showed her.

" _Uh_ …" Mr. Carey appeared hesitant. "I know we spoke on Thursday, but I honestly… didn't think you'd show up this weekend."

"Time is of the essence, Mr. Carey," Cassie said. "Your son isn't the only person I must speak with, but he is vital. I have done extensive research about your son, and he is the best candidate. In a few years, thanks to him, every person might be able to get scholarships. College could be free for every person that chooses it simply because what happened to him because of that loss. Or should we not do this, after all?"

"No, no,  _um_ …" the man shook his head. "Please, come in." He stepped aside, opening the door wider. Mr. Carey spread his arm, inviting them into his home. He guided them to a living room, and then gestured to the couch. "Make yourselves comfortable. Did you girls want anything to drink? We have water."

"That would be fine, thank you," Tracee answered. She waited until the man disappeared around the corner before she shifted her attention to her friend. "Extensive research…? Free college for everyone?" she repeated in a questioning manner. "Just how far did you go with this?"

"… There may be a rough draft laying around somewhere," Cassie admitted, looking away. "It'd make a good story to publish one day—don't judge me… This is my job! Shut up!" Tracee only giggled, stopping only when her friend elbowed her side. Good thing she had because Mr. Carey had come back into the room, carrying bottled waters. "Thank you…" Cassie accepted. "Is your son home right now?"

"No, Scotty's… He went out, but he's usually back around this time," he replied. Hesitation clearly showed as he sat down opposite of them. He nervously wrung his hands together. "Listen, I haven't exactly… had the chance to tell Scotty about all this. He doesn't know you contacted me. I don't think he'll be particularly happy with answering your questions."

"You'd be surprised by the amount of people I meet that don't want to answer questions," Cassie remarked. "At the end of the day, I can still get my job done. Especially on important matters like this, Mr. Carey. This will be good for him. His story needs to be told."

"I just..." He heaved a heavy sigh. "I don't know what else to do. It's been a rough year—for both of us. Scotty doesn't… talk to anyone anymore, except his therapist, I mean."

"Therapist…? You didn't mention a therapist before," Cassie said.

"… I…" Appearing caught, Mr. Carey pursed his lips. "I'm at the end of my rope here. I didn't think you'd want to do your story on him if you knew about his paranoia." His grip on his clasped hands became visibly stronger. "What you told me—that this will be good for him, getting his story out there—I want to believe it. That he'll get better if he would just share with other people. None of the therapists he's had have panned out. I doubt this one will either. I just... I just want him to get better."

A therapist threw a wrench in their plans. They had counted on Scott Carey not being able to vent to anyone, so when the opportunity presented itself, he would flow like a faucet. It's what happened with the previous psychics so far. But this one had someone he could talk to without fear of reproach, or so therapists claimed. It was really a confidentiality thing. Still… It might be a bit harder for them to extract information—to get Scott to trust them—if he had already vented to someone else. Judging from how rigid Cassie posture had become, she had reached the same conclusion.

Before any of them could speak further, the front door opened. The sound of it shifted their attention to the hallway, leading to the rest of the house. A man came into view, eyes only glancing into the living room. He did a double-take, realizing that his father seemed to be entertaining guests. His movements halted, an expression of surprise crossed his face before he settled on wary. His shaggy hair was dark, almost matching the dark bags under his eyes. He had hazel eyes, leaning more towards gold than brown. It was, perhaps, his most striking feature, but the rest of him—thin, pale, rather sickly-looking appearance took away from his piercing gaze.

Mr. Carey stood up to greet his son. It was awkward because Scott only stared instead of returning the greeting. The older man cleared his throat, and then introduced Cassie and Tracee as journalists. The wariness in Scott's expression shifted to irritation the more his father explained their presence. "No," he protested, and then stormed off. Seconds later, the sound of a door slamming shut caused the father to flinch. The three of them were left in an uncomfortable silence. Mr. Carey seemed both embarrassed and hurt. Turning to face the women on his couch, he apologized for his son's behavior.

"It's alright," Cassie said.

"Do you mind if we…?" Tracee trailed off, gesturing to where Scott had disappeared with a tilt of her head.

"M-Maybe—if you think you could," he muttered.

The man sat back down, sighing deeply. He truly seemed at a loss when it came to his own son. Tracee stared at him, recognizing the demeanor. It was the same resignation and exhaustion as John Winchester. Only this man had no idea what his son could possibly be going through. Plastering on a friendly smile, Tracee stood from the couch. Cassie copied her movements. "Thank you, sir," she said, and then moved to follow after the younger Carey. It was easy to spot his room. There was a poster of a punk rock band tapped to his door. Cassie was the one to knock.

"Scott…!" she called courteously. Her knuckles rapped on the door again. There was no response given. "We just wanted to talk to you. Five minutes is all we're asking. Maybe even less than that, I swear!" Still, only silence had been the retort. Cassie clicked her teeth, mildly annoyed. Shaking her head, Tracee decided that pleasantries were unneeded in this situation. Without a word of warning, she grabbed the doorknob and twisted. Fortunately, it wasn't locked—not that it would matter if it had been—and she stepped inside. Scott, sitting upright in his bed, sharply looked her way, obviously incredulous by her audacity.

"You can't just come into my room!" he exclaimed, scurrying to stand up. As he stood to his full height, trying to appear as intimidating as he could, Cassie shut the door behind her. They would need as much privacy as possible for what was about to transpire. Doubtful that Scott would confess anything to his father. "I said  _no_. I don't want to talk about my scholarship!"

"Good—that's not why I'm here," Tracee replied, crossing her arms. Scott's righteous anger seemed to deflate. Although he was still tense, his shoulders lowered as he no longer pretending to be taller than he was. The glare on his face had become a confused scowl. "I am here because of what happened six months after you were born. The fire… Your mother dying in your nursery." His eyes grew wide. "I am here because of the headaches you started having a year ago. Painful headaches that no amount of medication took care of. The searing pain of a drill being jammed into your head—those type of headaches." As she continued speaking, Scott's shock became the most prominent in his expression. "I am here because you may have the answers I've been looking for."

"H-How do you…?  _What_?" Scott seemed physically staggered by, she assumed, familiar information. " _Who_  are you? How do you know all that?" he demanded.

"My lover," Tracee stated. "He has gone through the same thing." The man's breathing became strained, but she continued speaking. "But that would just be a coincidence, and it'd be a bit silly to seek a person out over a coincidence." He opened and closed his mouth, obviously unable to come up with words. Tracee tilted her head, cocking up her left brow. "I assure you, Bradley-" She ignored Cassie's correction of the man's name. "-This is no coincidence. There are others who have experienced the same thing. Besides my lover, I have met two others. In total, there are four of you… all with the same circumstance. Your mothers died in 1983 on the same night. In 2005, you all started getting headaches, which developed into something else… something not normal. We found you because you're special. You an ability that you didn't have before."

Scott froze. For the first time, fear entered his eyes. Then the anger came back, overriding everything else. Completely standoffish. Tracee recognized that he would no longer listen to anything further. "I don't know who you are. I don't care why you're here, but you need to leave now!" he whispered harshly. Cassie stepped forward, soothingly saying his name. Scott merely shook his head. "No! Get out of my house right now!"

"Scott, please! We know what you're going through," Cassie tried to reason. "We know what it's like to suddenly having some weird… thing that you know nothing about. We know it's scary, but we can  _help_  you!"

"You don't  _know_  me!" he shouted. "You don't know anything! I'm not-! I'm not a  _freak_!"

In that moment, his words echoed through her, and Tracee realized why Scott was afraid. She had felt it herself. What Cassie had told him had rang true. Until now, she hadn't really thought about how other people would feel not being normal anymore. Scott thought himself a freak. Tracee had outwardly remained calm after realizing things had changed back in 2003, but on the inside... Reaching up, she scratched the side of her neck as memories of distancing herself from everything and everyone entered her mind. She understood Scott. Both Slayers did. All Slayers could probably understand on some level.

"I apologize," Tracee found herself sounding sincere. "Of  _course_  you're not a freak. I did not say it, nor imply it, and if you took it that way, I am truly sorry." For a moment, no one spoke. Then she released a breath through her nose. "We'll go… But before we do, you need to know that you don't have to face what you're going through alone." She reached into the pocket of her jacket and pulled out a business card of the hotel they were currently staying in. "Like Cassie said, we do want to help. At least enough to have you understand." She walked over to his night stand, and Scott recoiled at her nearness. Ignoring that, Tracee placed the card on the night stand, and then turned to look at him again. "We're staying in room 205. You want to know the truth as to what is happening, we can give you some answers. We'll stay away for now, though."

"But…" Cassie began. Tracee sharply turned, looping her arm around her fellow Slayer's. She shook her head, and then reached to open the door. Frowning, Cassie followed after. Then the two of them took their leave. The goodbyes and apologies were exchanged with Mr. Carey, and they left the house, heading to their mode of transportation. "I didn't think you'd give up," Cassie muttered once they separated at the truck of the car. "He might have told us what we wanted to know right then and there if we kept pushing."

"Your journalistic instincts would have only caused a guy like him to shut down," Tracee explained. Her friend made a petulant face. "It would have turned into an information overload. It would not have been beneficial for him to learn about everything in one sitting." Her mind darted to thoughts of Max Miller while Cassie sighed heavily.

"I thought he would open up if he knew there are people like him," she admitted. "It's not like it's the worst bomb that we could have been dropped."

" _Shyeah_ … me, too…" Tracee murmured. "But… his reaction was understandable, wouldn't you agree, Cassie?" The taller woman pressed her lips together, looking to another place. The topic of her finding out about the supernatural—the very first time—had been taboo. Untouchable because of the emotional backlash that had happened. Her reaction had been understandable, too. Cassie shifted her gaze back to Tracee, no longer thinking of the past. "Let's give him some time. See what happens in a couple days. If he doesn't come around, I suggest kidnapping."

"You're joking."

"Of course I'm joking…  _kinda_."

"Something is wrong with you," Cassie remarked, opening the driver side door.

"Like I haven't heard that one before," Tracee grinned. "Let's find a mall and a club, and get this girls' trip started proper like. You know what they say about all work and no play, yes?" Cassie scoffed, probably remembering all the times she had to sit through  _The Shining_. Tracee chuckled. "Stop fronting—you know you enjoy it."

"Whatever, let's get that camera first."

 

0-0

 

Unbeknownst to the two girls, a pair of eyes watched as they got into the silver vehicle parked outside the Carey residence. Admittedly, he had found its presence odd. He had been tracking this aberration for over a week now, and had realized that his target had a set routine. He had foreseen no difficulties with this job. But then Tracee Noland had stepped out of that house. The  _Slayer_ , or so she called herself. If she was here, then did that mean John's boys were here, too? If so, where was that signature Impala? And who was this new girl? That was too many questions that he hadn't expected to run into. He narrowed his eyes, glaring as the silver vehicle drove away. Their presence could potentially change what he had planned.  _Hm_ … This might actually be beneficial. Two for the price of one. He could take care of this one, and then stick the other one. He would just have to wait until the next time the freak left his house. That would be tomorrow night. With a resolute nod, Gordon Walker turned the key in the ignition, starting up his car again.

 

0-0

 

Scott Carey paced the length of his bedroom. His hand reached up to clutch his forehead as he squeezed his eyes shut. There was no migraine, but after so long of having them, it had become habit to grab his head whenever the stress became too much. Phantom headaches. They were as bad as the real ones sometimes. He sighed out, shuddering all over. He opened his eyes, gaze darting over to where his alarm clock was. Fifteen minutes before his appointment. He should have left already, but despite his feet moving, they had not taken him to his door. It felt as though the walls that had become his life had gotten bigger by those two women. He had no idea who they were or where they had come from, but more than twenty four hours later, his mind was still reeling because of their words. Ever since last year, his life had been levels of hell—the unbearable headaches, the nightmares, and…

He halted his pacing, lowering his hand to stare at the palm. Clenching his jaw, Scott examined the etched lines. He curled his fingers, and balled his hand into a fist.  _You have an ability that you didn't have before_ , that five foot nothing girl had told him. She had  _known_. About the headaches, his mother, the unnatural effect of touching. Or maybe not specifically the touching. But she still had known. How? Could she possibly know more? She seemed to. Did she know about the yellow-eyed man? Scott dropped his hand to his side, shuddering again. He hadn't had another dream of him since the accident with Mr. Tinkles. But those eyes still haunted him to the point of obsession. The back of his closet could attest to that.

Again, Scott's gaze shifted to his alarm clock. Ten minutes until he was supposed to meet with Dr. Waxler. He had been going to the same therapist for a few weeks now. The others ones hadn't panned out for one reason or the other. Sooner or later, Dr. Waxler would join the failed attempts at fixing him. Scott had resigned himself a long time ago—between his third and fourth therapist—that he couldn't be fixed. Not by people who treated normal crazy. He had tried, though. Tried so hard to be normal. He had gone to the sessions. Had taken the pills. Had talked about really personal things. Nothing had worked. He was still miserable and edgy. Not to mention sleep-deprived. Although the nightmares had stopped, just a month ago, he was still afraid of meeting that yellow-eyed man, and his incessant whispering. Trying to provoke him into using his ability to hurt people. He had given in when the man told him to test it out on the cat, but he… he just couldn't fry another person. No way. He would rather die.

Ever since he had turned twenty-two, Scott had disconnected from everything because of these levels of hell. What was the point in going through all this? He had seriously considered it at one point. To just give up. He had locked himself away because of it. He couldn't even hug his own father in fear of an accident. Mr. Tinkles' owner had been devastated, finding the body. He could only imagine what it would be like for him if his father… Scott shook his head, not even wanting to think about it. He let out another shuddering breath. Yeah, he would rather die, but… could never work himself up to end it all. He could never leave his father like that. Not the one person that still cared about him. So called friends had vanished from his life one by one. And he hadn't blamed them. Not really. He had been the one to change. He had been the one to push them away. He had resigned himself to suffering this hell.

But suddenly this five foot nothing woman had come out of nowhere and had told him that he hadn't been the only one suffering? Other people—people his exact age—had been going through the same things. The yellow-eyed man had been right. There were people like him in other places. Did that mean that he would be soldier? No. He didn't want that. He didn't want to hurt anyone. But maybe those women… What were their names? Cassie and Tracee. They hadn't mentioned the yellow-eyed man. Maybe they were like him. The shorter one had already mentioned that her  _lover_  was the same. Scott grimaced. All their sudden appearance had done had been to raise more questions. Questions Dr. Waxler wouldn't be able to answer.

Scott shut his eyes, thinking back to how it would feel to just get everything off his chest. This morning, he had imagined telling someone. He had rehearsed how he would say it to his therapist, in fact. He had thought maybe, just maybe, letting it out would be therapeutic in some way. Even if the end result ended with him being thrown into a mental hospital. Because no way was it possible that he could have a superhuman ability. And be visited multiple times by a yellow-eyed man, telling him to become violent. Thinking it was crazy. Saying it aloud would only cement the fact. No way would anyone believe that he was still sane. Still, he had planned on finally admitting everything despite the negatives. But now… things were different.

…  _we can help you!_

…  _you're not a freak._

"This is crazy…" Scott muttered. With a shake of his head, he lifted both hands. His fingers rubbed at his temples as he slowly breathed in and out. He couldn't believe that he was even considering… Scott swallowed hard, lowering his hands. Two people he didn't know seemed more understanding than all of his therapists put together. No. No. Maybe they were… Well, they had lied, right? They couldn't possibly be trusted. Those two women didn't have any obligation to keep their mouths shut. "This is crazy…" he said again. His eyes shifted to the alarm clock again. Behind the prescription bottles, his clock indicated that it was past time for his appointment. He could still make it and come up with an excuse for his tardiness.

Then his gaze dropped down to the business card that had been left behind. Scott recognized the name of the hotel. He had driven by numerous times on his way to and from his sessions. Frowning, he reached for the card. In his haste, he accidently knocked over one of the pill bottles. For some reason, he looked down at the fallen bottle, staring hard at the name of his therapist on the label. They were pills prescribed to him to combat his insomnia. Other pills were antidepressants. Then slowly, his attention shifted to the card. He held the thin piece of paper with both forefingers and thumbs. Once more, he blurted out how the situation was crazy. But he was tired. Reprieve had been offered, and he was so very desperate for it. Without another thought, Scott shoved the business card in his jacket pocket and finally left the sanctuary of his room.

Completely unaware that his fate had shifted.

 

0-0

 

The sound of a ringing cell phone caused Cassie to open her eyes. Tracee reared back, taking the eyeliner with her. They both turned their attention to the pink cell phone on the counter of the bathroom sink. They had already gotten dressed to go out tonight, and were just finishing by applying makeup. Tracee shifted, turning to face the counter. Cassie remained where she was on the edge of the bathtub. With a curious brow lifted, she watched her friend flip open her phone. It had been the default ringtone. Every contact in her phone had been assigned a specialized ring, so it was strange that she was getting a call this late at night from an unknown number.

"Hello…?" Tracee greeted, sounding pleasant. Amazing how she could so easily switch to her customer service voice. "Yes, my name is Tracee Noland. How may I help you?" Her expression twisted in confusion. "Sorry, I don't know a Jeff Crouse—who are you?" Her eyebrows knitted together, and for a few seconds, her lips opened and closed. Clearly, she had been shocked by whatever this person had told her. "You're their  _what_?!" Cassie almost winced by how shrill her voice had gotten. Not good news then. Tracee began pacing. A little aggressively. If she stomped any harder, the bathroom's tiled floor would be ruined. "Don't tell me to call down,  _Matlock_! Why did you even  _call_  me?!"

"Tracee…?" Cassie tried to get her attention, but the shorter woman merely swatted at the air between them. She seemed to be listening intently to the person on the other side of the phone call. Well, at least she had stopped pacing now. Cassie frowned, feeling her curiosity increase the longer the silence dragged on. She might have even stopped breathing in an effort to hear the other side.

"You know what?" Tracee blurted. "You calling me was a waste of time. Because I am  _not_  going to Baltimore because of their shenanigans. Just to prove Dean didn't murder me and leave me on the side of the road." Cassie's lips parted in surprise. Her friend paid her no mind. "Good news for you, though. You don't have to worry about me showing up to add to your defense, anyway because I'm sure this case isn't going anywhere at all. But if you see them again, tell them they had better pick me up on Friday or the death penalty will be the  _least_  of their worries." With a slight growl, Tracee snapped her phone shut.

"D-Death penalty…?" Cassie repeated, hesitant on knowing more.

"No, we're not going to worry about that," Tracee retorted, placing her phone back on the counter. "This is not going to ruin our night. We're going to go out, have fun, and get the full story from them on Friday." Clearing her throat, she picked up the eyeliner again. Nonchalantly, she moved into finish Cassie's makeup.

"You're such a good friend," she muttered, humorously, despite the dread creeping up within her.

"Don't worry about it," Tracee told her. "More than likely, they only accidently crossed paths with the authorities on a hunt. It's a misunderstanding, and they're going to get out of it. Like I said, this is not going to ruin our night." She stepped back, admiring her work. "Now, I've enhanced your beauty too much for you to be frowning, so…" She mimed a smile, and then turned to put the eyeliner with the other makeup products.

Cassie sighed heavily, realizing that Tracee was right. It wasn't as though they could do anything at the moment. Baltimore was hundreds of miles away. Fretting wouldn't help whatever situation Dean had stumbled into. She knew with what they did skirted on that line between good and bad. In the eyes of the law, they were petty criminals, surely, but… The  _death_  penalty, though? Of all things…! She hoped that Tracee's indifference was a good sign. Shaking her head, Cassie stood from the rim of the tub and looked at herself in the mirror. Once again, Tracee had done a really good job. She had even gotten the lip liner just right. She could be a professional if she really wanted. But Cassie suspected her friend was too enthralled with investigation to consider painting faces for a living.

"So are you taking care of dinner tonight?" Cassie questioned as she joined Tracee at the sink. She pulled at the hem of her rose gold dress, and the fixed the thin straps.

"I don't see a problem with it," she answered, putting on her earrings. "My father should be making a deposit for this month soon." According to Tracee, her father/Watcher had been saving money for her for several years. The man, Victor Noland, had had two forms of income. One from his regular job, and the other from the Watcher's Council. Although the second form of income had stopped, the money that hadn't been used went to his daughter each month. Tracee, however, hadn't really starting using it until she had begun traveling around the country. Compensation for harboring a potential Slayer, Tracee had said he had called it. Of course, that compensation would run out eventually, but for now her friend used it on food and some frivolous things. Cassie wished she had had a doting Watcher.

"Okay, let's go," she said, walking out of the bathroom. Tracee followed after her, flipping the switch to shut up the light. Cassie sat down on her bed, reaching for the strappy black heels. Just as she was slipping on the shoes, there was a knock at the door. She looked towards the door, furrowing her brow. As Tracee already had on her wedge heels, she was the one to walk towards the door. The knocking came again just as she reached for the doorknob. The door opened, but at the angle she was sitting, Cassie couldn't see the visitor. She finished putting on her shoes. "Who's there?"

Tracee opened door wider and stepped aside, revealing a nervous looking Scott Carey. Surprised, Cassie stood up. Honestly, she hadn't expected him to show up. She had believed they would have to seek him out again tomorrow, after convincing Tracee that they had waited enough. The man's eyes darted to and from the two women. He cleared his throat, dropping his gaze to the carpeted floor. "Is this a bad time…?" he questioned.

"No," Cassie said, walking forward.

"We were about to leave," Tracee said at the same time. She ignored the slight glare from Cassie and the abrupt way Scott lowered his head. "I wasn't expecting you tonight."

"I wasn't expecting this either," Scott admitted. He gave a wry chuckle. "I'm actually supposed to be meeting my therapist." He lifted his head, line of sight moving between them again. He pressed his lips together, taking a hand from his jacket pocket. He reached up and rubbed his temple. "This past year has been hell for me. Bad thing after bad thing, each one worse than the last. All I have are questions and pain. And all these people my dad pays for say or think they have answers… but I haven't gotten better. So… So… when you came to my house and… You sounded like you knew things that no one else does." His fingers pressed harder against his temple and he squeezed his eyes shut. Then he abruptly dropped his hand and opened his eyes again. "It's crazy, but… I'm  _here_. Help me."

Tracee drew in a slow breath, eyes widening and eye brows rising. That was recognition in her expression.  _Help me_ , Scott had said. His voice had remained flat, but Tracee must have realized that he had been in her dream. Out of all the psychics out there, he was as important to help as Max Miller. The reason for that, unfortunately, remained unclear. "Alright," Tracee responded, coming out of the slight daze. "Let's help each other then, shall we?" Scott breathed in deeply, and then nodded his head. "But I'm not skipping out on dinner. I heard this place has lobster risotto and I'm fully prepared to go Chef Ramsey on it if necessary."

"You watch too much reality T.V.," Cassie remarked. Her friend merely grinned. "Scott, would you like to come with us?" she asked, shifting her gaze to the man still standing in the hallway. "We're going to that jazz restaurant a few miles from here. It should be pretty quiet. We could talk there over dinner?"

"… I don't… know if I'm dress for that," he admitted. Well, in comparison to their attire, Scott did seem a little underdressed with his buttoned shirt over a simple gray t-shirt and jeans. He shuffled uncomfortably under her scrutiny of his outfit.

"Your clothes shouldn't be a big deal," Tracee said. "And if it is… I dare them to try to eject us." Scott frowned and furrowed his brow, clearly not understanding the underlying threat. Cassie had, and despite herself, she mirrored her fellow Slayer's smirk.

Fifteen minutes later, the three of them had arrived to the small restaurant. They were seated at a half circle booth near the back, facing the stage. The performing band were in the middle of playing a rendition of  _Careless Whisper_. She had recognized the soothing melody well enough even without the lyrics. Her mother used to play it on repeat, swaying to the soft tunes in the living room while Cassie played with her toys. Her love of George Michael knew no bounds. Cassie smiled lightly at the memory of her mother belting out the lyrics and her father's playful eye roll. Before she could get lost the fond memory, the song finished and another one started. Taking a silent deep breath, she focused back on her surroundings. As she had offhandedly predicted, there wasn't much of a crowd. Not a lot of jazz admirers in Lafayette, it seemed.

Tracee wasn't a fan either, but she had chosen a fast-paced club last night, so it had been Cassie's turn this night. She eyed her friend, who was seriously looking through the menu to decide what she wanted to eat. To the right of her, sitting at the opposite edge of the booth, Scott kept his fingers curled around the glass of water that had been brought to him. His eyes remained on the clear liquid, concentrating on not mistakenly making eye contact with anyone. He had been pretty silent since they had left the hotel. He had only spoke up once to ask for the water. Hm. From her place opposite of him, Cassie idly wondered if he could ever go back to the way he had been before this whole psychic thing came about.

"Okay, I think I'm just going to jump right into it," Tracee announced, cutting through the silence between the table. The shorter woman lowered the menu to the table, closing the flaps as she did. Cassie had chosen her dinner only a few minutes after looking through the menu. Tracee had taken a lot more time, and hopefully had come to a decision. However, instead of opening her mouth to tell of her choices, her eyes looked towards Scott. He had decided not to look through any choices. It wasn't all surprising if he hadn't wanted to eat. "All of us want answers, so let's start asking questions." Although barely noticeable, Scott flinched, apparently sensing Tracee's gaze despite not looking away from the glass in his hands. He inched closer to the edge of the booth, seemingly thinking of escaping.

"You're in good company, Scott," Cassie spoke up. He froze, and then lifted his gaze from the water. Even with the dimmed lights of the restaurant, the brown in his eyes stood out. "Whatever it is, you can tell us and not be judged." Taking in a deep breath, Scott shifted his gaze elsewhere for a moment. Then he slowly nodded his head. While still hesitant, he did appear less inclined to making an escape. Cassie relaxed, not realizing she had become tense in the first place. "Let's start from the beginning. Your dad said your headaches started a year ago, what else did you notice besides the headaches, I mean?"

"… Before I go admitting anything," Scott began. "Are you really journalists? How did you find me?"

"Yes, I'm a journalist, but I'm on vacation," Cassie stated.

"I'm unemployed," Tracee admitted with a shrug. "As to how we found you… I know a genius. I gave him parameters, and he did a nationwide search on those specifications." She leaned forward, linking her hands together by threading her fingers. Her eyes focused on Scott, she opened her mouth to continue. "Your name popped up, along with my lover's and two other people. As I said before, there are four people who fit the criteria. But I know there's more out there who started with headaches and started exhibiting a talent they didn't have before."

"Like you…?" Scott questioned.

"No, not like me," Tracee said.

"Then… why did you find me?"

"I think I dreamed of you." Her unashamed answer caused Scott to frown. "I think I'm supposed to help you. I  _want_  to help you understand what you've been going through. But in order to do that, I need you to tell me some things." Scott pursed his lips, shifting his gaze down at the table. He removed his hands from the table and let out a slow breath. "Let's start with a disclosure. My lover, Samuel—he can see the future. Well, possible futures. His foresight makes it possible for his visions to be stopped or altered. It's how we found out that he wasn't the only one with an ability. It's how we found Max, who can move things with his mind. Because of his visions, we also found another one. He has mind control. What can you do?"

"I-" Scott clenched his teeth. It took a moment, but he eventually opened his mouth again. "When I touch something, I can electrocute it if I want." Cassie and Tracee exchanged a look. Their silence caused Scott to stare at them. "You don't believe me."

"It's not that," Cassie assured him quickly. "But we weren't expecting an elemental type of ability… So far, we only know of capabilities of the mind. Premonitions. Telekinesis. Mind control. You…" She bit her lip once. "You can conduct electricity. Not exactly mind over matter."

"You said if you want," Tracee stated. "You can control it now?"

"Yeah," Scott replied. "It started off small. I… shocked a few people like… I was always sliding across a carpet with socks." He looked elsewhere for a few seconds. "Then I was… making out with this girl and she… had a seizure. Well, that's what they said, but I know I did it to her. That's when I started-"

"Closing yourself off?" Cassie guessed. Ashamed, Scott nodded his head. "Then what happened? You started experimenting?"

"Little things," he insisted. "Eventually, I got to the point where I didn't accidently set it off. Then I started having the dreams. The nightmares. This guy comes to me and tells me to… do things— _awful_ things—but I-I tell him no. I always tell him no. Until he goaded me into trying it on the neighbor's cat… I shouldn't have, but…" Scott reached up, aggressively rubbing his forehead. "He kept telling me to find out what I was capable of. I-I thought Mr. Tinkles would just have a seizure, but… its insides fried up like a hamburger. I didn't mean to kill, but he was right. I could go further."

"Who's he…?" Tracee questioned. "Someone you know?"

"No…" Scott stated with a shake of his head. "But… He has these yellow eyes and-" Tracee inhaled sharply and Cassie felt her own eyes widening. "You… You know him?"

"We've  _met_ ," Tracee nearly hissed. Scott lifted his shoulders and lowered his head, obviously uncomfortable with the Slayer's glare. Her sudden anger was reasonable. Honestly, Cassie felt her own anger rising at the mention of the yellow-eyed demon. However, this could be what they had come here for. "What else did he tell you?"

"… He… He says he has plans for me," Scott mumbled. "He says there's a war coming, and people like me—we're gonna be the soldiers. Everything's about to change."

"That's it…? That's all he told you?" Tracee prodded.

"Every night for three months," Scott gave a curt nod. "Same thing over and over again. This war—it can't be stopped, so the only thing I can do is prepare and become a soldier."

Tracee hummed lightly, and then opened her mouth to speak again. She and Scott continued exchanging words—more details of the dream—but their conversation had been drowned out, muffled by the vicious thumping going on within Cassie's chest. A momentous event that couldn't be stopped…? She swallowed hard, mind almost immediately going to the countless prophecies she had become privy to in the last six months. Having this information come from a supernatural source made it … plausible that it could happen. These humans with various abilities could become soldiers on the side of evil, edging the world towards the next apocalypse. Sam Winchester. Max Miller. Scott Carey. Andrew Gallagher. They could all unwittingly be the harbingers of destruction. Suddenly, John Winchester's last words had made sense to her.

And it scared the hell out of her.

Cassie abruptly stood up, drawing the attention of her tablemates. She swallowed hard again, attempting to ignore their questioning looks. "I'm… I need some air," she told them, already moving away from the booth. Tracee furrowed her brow, opening her mouth. "I'll just be a minute. I'll be right back." Immediately, her friend snapped her mouth shut. Cassie felt her jaw go rigid as she turned away. She walked briskly towards the entrance of the restaurant. Making it outside, she felt the cool night air brush against her skin. It did little to stop the heat rising within her. The revelation of it all…

The Slayer came to a stop at the hood of her car. She pressed her hands against the cool metal and shut her eyes. Tracee had told her the last words John Winchester had said to his son before they had come to Lafayette. Before, she hadn't understand how any man could leave his son with such a heavy burden. But now she knew. Cassie would never claim to know a man like Dean's father, but if he had known about this coming war, she understood his last ultimatum. The needs of the many outweighed the needs of the few. That had been the logic John had adhered to, and had expected his oldest son to do the same.

It was a lot to take in. Cassie liked Sam well enough, and she couldn't see him fighting for evil. Not ever. But John must have had inclination that it was possible. His own son. Curling her fingers a bit, Cassie pressed her lips together. This news would shake Dean worse than the ultimatum. He would still put on a front, but inside, she knew it would shatter him. The world or his brother. Despite help, the choice would ultimately be his to make.

But even that choice wouldn't account for the other psychics. If a war was truly in the works, and humans fought alongside the side of evil… they would have to die. Cassie didn't much like the thought, but the Slayer in her had already agreed. She wondered if Tracee had reached the same conclusion. Had already accepted the same conclusion. "No…" Cassie found herself murmuring. No, this was not her life. She was not smack dab in the middle of this. She had only been doing a favor for friends. With a shake of her head, she tried to convince herself that she wasn't involved. She was a Slayer, but this wasn't her war. She couldn't be a part of this. This wasn't her life, and… Damn it. She was already in too deep, wasn't she?

A slow breath left her parted lips. She could try to cling tightly to a normal life, but in the long run, she would fall. Had that been what her Slayer dreams had been telling her? Had there been no escaping her fate? Cassie opened her eyes. She was still scared, but what else could she do… other than to prepare? A chill went through her, pondering if her recent dream had been trying to warn her of this coming war. She shook her head again. No. She couldn't leap to assumptions just yet. In order to form a concise story, more information had to be gathered. She would have to talk to Missouri sooner rather than later, and confer with Tracee… and Dean. They were much closer to the situation, after all.

"You sure do know how to pick your friends," an unfamiliar voice caught her attention. Cassie turned, eyes finding a dark-skinned man approaching. Her eyes narrowed as he stopped, only a few feet away from her. She examined him, noting one of his hands was behind his back. Then she realized just how deserted the parking lot was. Slight panic coursed through her, but she remained calm. The panic had been a deep-rooted reaction because she was a woman completely alone with a man that was unfamiliar to her. Nothing more, but if he got any closer the fight part of her instincts would overwhelm that panic.

" _Excuse_  me…?" Cassie replied, crossing her arms.

"Oh, nothing," the man said, nonchalantly. "Just commenting on your choice of company, sweet thing."

"Do I know you?" Cassie frowned, not at all liking the seemingly innocent charm.

"No, but your friend does," he stated. "Tracee Noland." Her brow jerked in surprise. "I saw you both with my target. I've been tracking this guy for over a week now, but he went to your hotel room instead of his regular appointment." Cassie glared, realizing that this man had been following Scott. "I have some questions is all." She scoffed, but before she could give a biting retort, the man moved his hand from behind his back, revealing a large bowie knife. He pointed the sharp tip at her, and she had to push down every instinct to immediately disarm him. "Now, don't scream. I don't want to hurt you, but I do need you to help me."

"Who  _are_  you?"

"I'm surprised Tracee hasn't mentioned me," he smiled, showing perfectly white teeth. "We go  _way_  back. My name's Gordon Walker." Cassie remained silent, unimpressed by the name drop. "Now, as I was saying, you're going to help me draw out Tracee, which will draw out Scott and hopefully Sammy. I'll gut them both."

"Why?" she questioned, alarmed. The casual way of him talking about murdering two people. The implication of kidnapping just to get to them. Holy hell, this guy was a piece of work. Still… he obviously knew about the connection between Sam Winchester and Scott Carey. How? What was his source?

"Because I'm going to save the world," Gordon told her.

Seemingly hundreds of questions ran through Cassie's mind as the man resumed moving towards her, knife still pointed. Whatever this man knew, the information had been enough for him seek out these people born in the same year and attempt to kill them. It had been concrete enough for him to try and prevent it. As far as she was concerned, Sam and Scott weren't dangerous to humanity, but this man obviously believed they would be. She had to know where he got his information from. Whether it would be a confirmation of what Scott had said, or even more info than he could provide, she had to get to the truth. So Cassie allowed Gordon to roughly grab her by the wrist, resisting only a little as he yank her towards a bright red car. She was fully prepared to put on a show for information.

Wouldn't be the first time.

It certainly wouldn't be the last.

 

0-0


	31. Support & Certainty

This was a touch of amusing… in a way. Obviously, it couldn't be all the way funny. Tracee could more than imagine what Scott Carey must have felt with this surge of new information. She, herself, had been in his position only six months ago. Admittedly, he seemed to be taking the introduction of the supernatural better than she had. A slight smile appeared on her face as she continued to watch him process. The man had grabbed his head after she had finished an explanation of sorts, elbows against the table, eyes wide and staring down. He was most definitely in a state of shock. Well, at least he hadn't fainted. Given there weren't any dire circumstances at the moment, Scott would have the time to adjust, unlike a lot of other people that had been shoved into the different world without warning because their lives happened to be in danger.

Tracee hummed a bit, once again, shifting her gaze to the entrance of the restaurant. A frown tugged at the corners of her lips. It had been fifteen minutes already. Cassie hadn't reappeared. She had had to send the waiter away twice already. Her best friend's response to Scott Carey's dream had been puzzling. She had put on a smile and had made an excuse, but Cassie had been visibly shaken by what Scott had told them. It would seem that the little information they had received had caused her  _sister_  to panic. A war was coming, and that information had come from the head demon in charge. Despite the implications of that, it had still been the bare minimum. Scott hadn't known anything else beside the little insight into yellow-eyes' plans.

Admittedly, she wasn't quite so sure that his plans were so cut and dry. Seriously. Conditioning a group of humans to fight his war? That couldn't be it. And  _what_  war? Between who? Demons versus humans wouldn't be a war. It would be a slaughter for various reasons, and all around pointless. And if there were plans for every single person like Scott, then why would the Demon allow  _any_  of them to die? Andrew Gallagher's evil twin had died. Had that put a damper on yellow-eyes' plan? It hadn't seemed to. Also, Max Miller could have died or been locked for his actions against his so called family. Apparently, one monkey don't stop the show was the Demon's logic, but that didn't make sense to her. The Demon's motivations were still unclear despite the new information.

The reason they had come to this town in the first place had been to collect information as to why John Winchester had felt the need to kill his son if he couldn't be saved. There was a chance that he had known what Scott had told them, but based solely on that? Was that the type of man John had been? Jumping to some ridiculous conclusion because of a tidbit? Save or kill. His own flesh and blood. Tracee hadn't known the man for long, but she didn't think he would choose those words as his last if he had  _this_  particular insight to the Demon's plans. No. There must have been something else. But… She had to admit, Scott's dream had provided what they hadn't had before. A silent breath left her. As little as the information had been, perhaps it would be enough to keep Dean from worrying. And when the time came, hopefully it would be enough for Sam, too.

Still… Perhaps she was too close to the situation to grasp what Cassie had. Her fellow Slayer was technically a neutral party, after all. To have had such a reaction, Cassie must have seen a glimpse further than Tracee had. Now, if only she would come back in so that they could talk about it. What was she doing? Tracee understood that hearing news of a coming supernatural war could be overwhelming to the average person, but her best friend was far from average even with the attempts at distancing herself from their world. Should she really be taking so long to come to terms with what a demon planned to unleash? Admittedly, it wasn't that big a deal to her. Not really. Not yet. She didn't have the luxury of reacting. Not without more information.

There had to be more information.

A sharp intake of air to her right snapped Tracee out of her thoughts before they could swirl around Sam and what the Demon had planned for him. She didn't believe it would happen. She wouldn't let that happen, but how far would she be willing to go? Reaching up, she scratched the side of her neck as she turned her line of sight to Scott. She silently released another heavy sigh, and then called out to the man. Scott blinked rapidly, dropping his hands from his head. "So…" he began. "All those stories you hear—they're true? Demons and vampires and ghosts?"

"Stories you hear aren't completely true," Tracee told him. "But they  _are_  based on the truth. These things exist, and you are a part of it. And you're not alone."

"You keep saying that, and telling me about all these things and mentioning people I don't know," Scott mumbled. "But what does it all mean? What happens now?" That was the million dollar question, wasn't it? Looking at him, Tracee couldn't help but to think back to that time in 2003. Despite how calm she had been telling what had happened to her to the Winchesters, the sudden activation had shook her world. It hadn't exactly been a smooth transition.

"What happens now?" she repeated. "I imagine the same thing that always happens when new information is learned. Accept it and embrace it. Accept it and ignore it. Or reject it completely and swim in denial. Really, it's up to the individual to decide. I can't tell you which way to go." Scott frowned. "But what I can tell you is no matter what way you choose, your choice is eventually going to catch up with you. This Demon that came to you in your dreams, he wants you to do bad things. And if you actually do what he wants, your safety's not guaranteed."

"Are you…? Is that a threat?"

"I don't make threats," Tracee told him. Scott's eyes grew wide in understanding. "What kind of world would this be if there weren't forces at work to keep the evil at bay? You said you didn't want to hurt anyone, so you won't have to worry about… me. How long has it been since he came to you?"

"Like a month," Scott muttered.

"And since then, you haven't used your ability?"

"No, I haven't…"

Tracee hummed, but before she could open her mouth—really, she hadn't thought of how to continue the conversation—her cell phone began ringing. Sighing lightly, she turned, hand moving to grab her newly bought purse. The ringtone was the default, and its volume became louder as she removed the cell phone from the small purse. Flipping the device open, she pressed it against her ear. For some reason, her number seemed to be getting popular—something she could do without, really. Before she could give a greeting, the screech of her name cut her off and caused her eyes to widened, and then narrow in confusion. Despite the high-pitched volume, she recognized the voice. Her eyes flickered over to the black and lilac purse left behind on the table where Cassie had sat.

Another cry of her name was cut off, causing Tracee's attempt to strain her ear to the background noise of the other side of the call. Faintly, she was aware of Scott's worried voice asking what was wrong. However, her surroundings were immediately drowned out by a deep male voice coming from her phone. " _Hello, again, Tracee_ ," he said. Her first thought of her friend being in danger from an unknown man caused her blood to run cold and her chest to seize with panic. Then reality and logic kicked in. Cassie may be in a spot of trouble, but she was also a lethal weapon in her own right. Still, this was something Tracee hadn't been expecting. Someone or something had gotten the drop on Cassie. Probably just outside the restaurant. " _Still with me, slugger_?"

"Who is this?" she asked, immediately annoyed with the familiarity this man addressed her with.

" _We met before… briefly_ ," the man explained, sounding too easygoing for someone casually implying kidnapping. She joked around a bit, but this guy was clearly serious. " _Just for a night. I thought I made an impression_."

"You thought wrong.  _Who_  is this?" Tracee questioned, allowing her annoyance to trickle into her voice. "You know what? It doesn't matter. I don't care who you are, but you've made a colossal mistake by taking Cassie." From the corner of her eye, she saw Scott about to open his mouth. She wagged a finger at him, silently telling him to hold off on speaking. The man frowned, but nodded his head in understanding. However, he was obviously alarmed by what he had heard.

" _I wouldn't have needed to, but you and_ Cassie _suddenly appeared on my hunt_ ," the man said. " _Distracted my target from normal routine. Stopped me from doing what I needed to do, so this is the only way to get back on track_."

"Hunt?" Tracee repeated. After a few seconds, the dots connected. Shit. Her eyes glanced Scott's way again. It didn't take a genius to figure out that someone had been after him, and their hunt had been foiled due to her and Cassie's interference. "You're a hunter who's hunting a human?"

" _That freak ain't human_ ," the man said. " _Not fully, anyway. And I think you're aware of it. Why else would you be here? I don't know what he told you, but whatever it is... he's not innocent. So here's what going to happen. I'll let your friend go if you bring me my target. See, he went to you instead of his therapist. This is what I have to do to finish my hunt_."

" _Why_  are you after him?"

" _I'll tell you when you get here_ ," he replied. " _5637 Monroe Street. Bring him or your friend might not make it through tonight. I would rather not have collateral damage, but… in our line of work, sometimes it just can't be avoided. And, by the way, it's Gordon_." Before she could protest or question his words, the line disconnected. Tracee squeezed her eyes shut, feeling her irritation at the situation spike. Counting down from ten, she slowly breathed out. She got nothing from that name, but she did know the man was a hunter. Human by default. So it confirmed that Cassie was not in any real danger. Then again… Home girl could potentially hold back because of  _human by default_. Still, her life shouldn't be on the line because of it. That didn't stop her heart from feeling the strain.

Tracee pulled the phone away from her ear, letting out a sigh. She tapped her phone against her lips, pondering this new circumstance. A hunter wanted to kill a human. But he had believed that Scott wasn't human. Therefore, he was susceptible to being hunted in the first place. That type of black and white thinking… was  _exactly_  what they had been trying to avoid when it came to Sam. Her eyes shot open in surprise. This hunter knew about Scott's demonic connection, and was reacting drastically to that information. Did he know about Sam as well? How? Shit. If this hunter wanted to kill Scott because of that, then chances were the other psychics they had come across were on the list.

"Tracee…? What's going on? What happened to Cassie?"

"Did you…?" Tracee took a deep breath, and then turned her focus on Scott. "How many people have you told about your dreams? Your ability?"

"Is this really important now? Your friend sounded like she was in trouble!"

"No, that was her fake screaming. She's done it before," Tracee told him, waving off his concern. "Answer the question. Does anyone else know about this? Your therapists? Your dad? Anyone?" Scott shook his head and said no. She let out a heavy sigh. "That's probably what Cassie's trying to find out then…" No way had she been taken with a fight. Not when she had gotten better in terms of skill. Tracee's hand reached up, nails lightly sliding against the side of her neck. No, she didn't fear for her friend's life, but this new circumstance was disconcerting. Scott hadn't done a thing that would warrant a hunter's attention, and yet one had come to town, intending to kill him. Not logical, unless he had known more information. Whoever this Gordon was had gotten information from a different source. Apparently, this man planned to do everything he could to kill those like Scott. And Sam. "I think the fuck not," Tracee nearly snarled.

"Can you please explain to me what's going on?!" Scott snapped her out of violent thoughts.

The Slayer dropped her hand from her neck and pressed her palm to the table's surface. "I'm going to be blunt with you," she stated. "Someone has come here to kill you. He's using Cassie as a bargaining chip so that he can get at you." Scott's lips parted as the color drained from his cheeks. Horror was the expectant reaction, but Tracee didn't bat an eye. "He wants me to deliver you to him in exchange for my friend. And I'm going to do it." The 'psychic' shook his head, and then moved to get up. Tracee immediately clamped her hand down over his wrist. He tried to pull away, but her grip did not falter. "Calm down," she told him in a hiss. "I won't let him kill you." Scott's eyes darted from her hand to her face, clearly panicked. "But I need you to be there so that this  _cannot_  happen again. Let me help you." To her surprise, Scott released a shaky breath, but then nodded his head. "Good. Here's what we're going to do…"

 

0-0

 

Once again, Cassie tested the grip of her bindings. She had been brought to this abandoned one story building and had immediately been tied to an old chair. Thick woven rope had been used for her wrists and held securely to the arms of the chair. Her ankles had been treated in the same manner to the legs of the chair. Other people would deem themselves trapped, but Cassie had come to realize her captor's mistake. If things got too out of hand, she was confident that she would be able to exploit that mistake. For now, she watched Gordon Walker through narrowed eyes, taking in his every move. He hadn't said much of anything since he had hung up on Tracee. The man busied himself by removing all sorts of weapons from his large duffle canvas bag. He was outright ignoring her, obviously sure that she would remain put. Well, she had been quite the complying hostage, hadn't she?

Cassie silently breathed deeply through her nose, and then licked her lips. Right now, Gordon had his back to her, rustling through his bag. "This is insane," she whispered with a shake of her head. The man paused whatever he was doing, back stiffening at the sound of her voice. "Why are you doing any of this? I don't deserve this… neither does Tracee or… or Scott. What have we ever done to you?" She hoped her voice had conveyed the perfect blend of distress and desperation, being a prisoner and all. Gordon slowly turned to face her, expression neutral. Honestly, it unnerved her. This was a man determined to see his plans through. An empty man with only a single goal in mind.

"I guess she really didn't tell you about me, after all," Gordon began. "I thought we hit it off… She knocked me out, left me tied up for three days. The least she could have done was remember me."

"That's it then? This is some sort of revenge against her?"

"No," he chuckled, but it sounded as neutral as his expression. "Yeah, I was pretty heated, but I'm sure Dean came up with that, and I'm definitely planning on whupping his ass for it." Cassie pursed her lips together, forcing herself not to show amusement. Though she didn't know the reason for it, it had sounded like something the older Winchester would do. "This isn't personal, though. It's necessary." Gordon leaned against table behind him, arms folded against his chest. "Tell me something—do you know what your friend does in her free time?" The earlier mirth vanished. She remained quiet, eyes still narrowed. "She hunts. Your friend goes out and kills things, along with Dean and  _Sammy_  Winchester." He stared at her, eyes becoming calculative before he relaxed completely. "Judging by your face, and the lack of calling me crazy, you already knew that—about the hunting."

"Oh, you're  _definitely_  crazy," Cassie retorted. "A crazy killer."

"I'm not a killer. I'm a hunter," Gordon said. "Scott and Sam, and everyone like them are fair game. See, they're the  _real_  killers, or they're going to be. Me—I'm just doing the job. Either way, we've got to take them all out." Cassie frowned, turning her gaze elsewhere for a brief moment. "You a hunter?"

"No," she said through clenched teeth.

"But you know what we do. We know what we go through," Gordon stated. "Tracee's got a real hard on for it. Calls herself Slayer—a protector of the innocent. A vanquisher of evil. She's so damn self-righteous about it. It's admirable, really… even if her morals are skewed." Cassie clenched her jaw. "Me and her—we're not so different. I can see it in her eyes. She would do what is necessary when it comes down to it. Once I tell her about Scott, she'll be onboard."

"You don't know her," Cassie bit out.

"Sure I do," he replied with a careless shrug. "She'll scope the place out, but ultimately come through that front door. She's a bold one, so she won't be the least bit worried about the rifle in my hands. The other two, they'll come from the back, which is why I'll be aiming the rifle at you. They care too much about collateral damage. But Tracee—she's going to walk right through that front door with Scott to distract me, I guess. But in doing so, she'll let me explain, and when it really sinks in… she'll let me do what needs to be done. She'll convince Dean and both of them will let me take out Sammy and Scott. Because at the end of the day, we're all alike."

"What are you even  _talking_  about?"

The corner of Gordon's mouth twitched. A phantom of a smile. Then he walked over, sitting in another chair adjacent to Cassie's tied down form. "I guess it wouldn't hurt to tell you," he said, stretching out his legs and getting as comfortable as he could in the rusted chair. Cassie had to stifle the urge to smirk. Jackpot. "You know about demons, right? I was doing an exorcism down in Louisiana. A teenage girl. It seemed routine. Some low-level demon." He gave a casual shrug, gaze becoming far away as he recalled the memory. "But between all the jabbering and the head-spinning, damn thing muttered something… about a coming war." There we go. And from the mouth of a demon. Definitely a jackpot. "I don't think it meant to," Gordon continued. "It just kind of… slipped out. But it was too late. It piqued my interest, and you can really make a demon talk with the right tools."

There was no making a demon, which needed to be exorcised, talk. They had no true form, other than smoke. Not a whole lot you can do to smoke, so… The host of the demon probably had not survived the so-called talk. A teenage girl. He had tortured a  _child_. And he spoke of it without feeling. Like it was an everyday thing for him. Like he was commenting on the weather. Cassie frowned, feeling herself strain against her bindings. She forced herself not to break free. "You tortured that little girl for information?" she managed despite the bubbling ire. Gordon slide his gaze over to her, much too languid for her tastes.

"Like I said… collateral damage. I did what I had to do. Besides, it wasn't a little girl anymore," he said. Then he looked away, no remorse. Nothing. "Anyway, this demon tells me they have these soldiers to fight in this coming war. Humans, fighting on Hell's side. You believe that?" He scoffed, shaking his head a bit. "I mean, they're psychics, so they're not exactly pure humans, but still... What kind of worthless scumbag you gotta me to turn against your own race?"  _Disgusting_ , her mind hissed. And familiar.

"Why don't you call your buddies at the local KKK meeting and ask them,  _hm_?" Cassie asked, feigning sweetness. Gordon had the audacity to look offended. "Pure humans, you said. So because they have something extra in their DNA, it makes  _hunting_  them okay? Killing them okay?" She laughed without humor. "Yeah, Dean and Tracee are gonna accept that. Should you call them back to bring extra rope for the lynching? Are we gonna burn a couple crosses while we're at it?"

"This and that are different," Gordon protested.

"Not from where I'm sitting," Cassie retorted. "Psychics aren't pure human, so despite how they live, they all need to die. Sounds like closed-minded thought and supremacy to me. Believe me, Gordy, I've heard the racial slurs. Being the product of an interracial marriage, I know what it's like to be looked at as impure. You sound too much like them to be considered different. And the fact that you're surprised that I'm saying these things tells me you  _are_  crazy. The  _delusional_  kind."

"… You're only saying that because you don't know what I know."

"And what  _do_  you know? What could you  _possibly_  know that wouldn't make everything you said sound like complete and utter racist bullshit?" She had gotten too hot, and she definitely should have kept her cool, but hearing things like that again—God…! Would it ever end? Even in this different world, those words managed to come up. And it seriously pissed her off. In the silence that followed, Cassie realized that she had been gripping the arms of the chair too tightly. The wood whined under the pressure. Forcing herself to calm down, she loosened her hold, and the wood wiggled because it was no longer nailed together properly. "I know Sam," she continued, hoping it would be enough of a distraction so that Gordon wouldn't notice how unsecured her bindings had become. "He's a good man. Scott's a little rough around the edges. He's depressed, but that doesn't mean he's going to fight on the side of a hell dimension. He doesn't want to hurt anyone. Neither of them do."

"Maybe you're right," Gordon relented. He blinked once, and then the soft expression he had taken completely disappeared. "But one day, they'll be monsters. No different from what we hunt. Might as well take them out now before they could do any harm."

"You can't possibly know that!" Cassie almost growled.

"Listen, sweetie, I'm not just some reckless yahoo," Gordon said. Cassie couldn't contain her scoff even if she had wanted to. The man continued speaking as though he hadn't heard it. "I did my homework, put in some extra credit. See, I got my hands on another demon. This one wasn't as low-level as the first. He said the coming war—it's just a precursor to the real thing. Freaks like them will have the power to usher in a new dark age, one where demons outnumber us and rule. An evil greater than this world has ever seen will come. It's their  _destiny_  to unleash it. I can't let that happen. I  _won't_  let that happen."

Cassie scowled as Gordon continued talking. Something about comparing these psychics to a young Hitler. She would have rolled her eyes, too, but she wasn't paying too much attention to him anymore. As far as she was concerned, she had discovered his source. Demons. It had been both a confirmation to what Scott had said and to her earlier thoughts. An apocalypse was in the works. Demons were planning for it, and their tools would be those with various supernatural abilities. Psychics. But there was something she didn't understand. Why this generation of psychics? Missouri was a psychic, after all, and yet she was different from Sam and Max. Scott, too. They were connected to this coming war, but not her. Why? What was so pivotal about  _this_  group that made the threat of great evil so close at hand?

Regardless of those answers, though, Cassie understood that she had found the reason—or, at least one of the reasons—John Winchester had left this world with such a damning ultimatum. Tracee would spit curses, but eventually come to an understanding. Cassie didn't know John, but she knew her fellow Slayer well enough to know that she would  _understand_. Following through, however. No. More than likely, she would stop at nothing to keep Sam from harm. Obviously, Dean would be the same in the end. Initially, his reaction could be denial. Cassie idly wondered how she would break the news to him, and how he would break the news to his brother.

Recognizing that Gordon was still talking, Cassie let out a huff of annoyance. "Aren't you done with that analogy?" she sniped. The man halted his ranting, blinking at her in surprise. "You're wasting your time and effort on something you don't know a damn thing about. First of all, you knew them for, what? A couple hours? Not exactly the authority on how they'll react, let me tell you. Second, Dean and Sam aren't even in the same state as us. They're in Baltimore, so good job on thinking you can get them here. Third, you really think the Slayer needs rescuing from  _you_? Hate to break this to you, Gordy," she said with a smile. "But the moment you did this was the moment your plans fell apart. And I can't wait to see the look on your face when you realized how bad you've messed up. I think I'm going to commit it memory. When I'm feeling down, I'll just think of it, and presto… laughter."

"… You know you remind me of someone…" Gordon muttered. "Can't put my finger on it, but you definitely remind me of somebody else I met." He stood up from his chair, examining her more thoroughly. Cassie frowned, not at all liking his scrutiny. "And you're not the same as before. Was that all an act—the screaming and the panicking? You gave Tracee some type of warning, didn't you?  _Ha_. You must think I'm stupid."

"You had a gun on me," Cassie reminded him. "But if you want to, you know, put that shoe on… knock yourself out." However, yes, it had been a warning. Well, it had been more of a message than anything.  _Don't rush, I'm fine_  had been the message. Before, Tracee had realized the terrified screaming because of her father's killer had been a ruse. Surely, the shorter woman had seen through it this time as well. If she hadn't, that door would have been kicked in a long time ago. And Gordon might already be dead without giving any information. Slayer or not, Tracee did not take kindly to anyone that had managed to get inside her heart come to harm. But he had sang like a canary for her. The only thing that remained was waiting on Tracee to show up or walking out herself.  _Hm_ … Decisions, decisions.

Before Cassie could choose—and she was leaning towards the latter because Gordon had kept an intense focus on her—a rattling caught her attention. Gordon noticed it, too, and pried his gaze away from her. "You hear her?" he asked. Then he grabbed a headscarf from the chair, and hurriedly wrapped it around Cassie's face. The cloth passed her lips and teeth, effectively silencing any attempt at speaking. It was knotted behind her head before Gordon quickly went over and lifted the rifle he had set on a table. The muzzle was pointed in her direction. Cassie found herself flinching. She did not want to find out the hard way that Slayers were not bulletproof. "Coming through the front. Just like I thought." Seconds later, the door opened, and Tracee and Scott walked in. Well, Tracee was nearly dragging the man beside her. Cassie noted that his wrists seemed bound together behind him.

Her friend hadn't bothered to change out of her black form fitting mini skirt and white halter top. She had, however, brush her hair back into a ponytail and had ditched her earrings. Judging from her cool expression, Cassie had no idea what she intended to do. She had brought Scott in like a prisoner, but there was no way she actually planned on handing him over, right? While it was true that Tracee cared little for most people, when it came down to it, she wouldn't trade lives. "Well, I've brought him as demanded," Tracee announced. She pushed Scott down to his knees. The man gasped sharply, most likely because of the impact with the floor. Eyes wide and full of panic, Scott looked back and forth between Cassie and Gordon. The Slayer beside him didn't appear the least bit apologetic. Her fingers curled tightly around the part of his jacket that covered his shoulder. "Shall we get this over with?" Cross and to the point, her British accent seeped into her tone.

"Now, is that any way to greet an old friend?" Gordon asked.

"That's funny, Bruce. Last time I thought about you, Sam was trying to convince Dean and me that leaving you stewing in your own mess for more than three days was too harsh," Tracee retorted. Bruce…? Oh, of course. Cassie shook her head, wondering why she hadn't come up with that sooner. Tracee had recalled the story of a hunter that had met with a penchant for going after vampires. She had only gotten the name wrong. Gordon was Bruce. Now, his familiarity and bigoted words made sense. "Didn't think you thought of us as friends. I certainly do not."

"That hurts… but we're not here for pleasure. This is business," Gordon said. "Sweet Cassie told me that the Winchesters aren't here. That true…?"

"They're in Baltimore," Tracee replied. "Enough with your idle chatter, Bruce. I've come for her." For the first time, her eyes looked towards Cassie. "And if you attempted to hurt her, I'll tell you right now negotiations are forfeit and you will not leave this place." Her expression remained passive, but her voice had become frosty. Had that been the Slayer talking or had that just been Tracee? Perhaps a blend of the two…? Maybe they weren't separate at all. To his credit, Gordon hadn't even flinched at the thinly-veiled threat. "Now… Shall we begin with you telling me exactly why you want to kill Scott?"

 _Ah_. The name. She had said his name right. Because of that, Cassie realized that Tracee had no intention of handing him over. Scott might have looked the part of a prisoner, but he would be protected. Most likely, this was all a ploy—a method to lure Gordon into a false sense of security. Cassie narrowed her eyes as Gordon began speaking, basically repeating everything he had said earlier. Almost everything. He apparently wasn't going to reveal his intention to kill Sam, which was probably the reason he had gagged her. He also neglected to mention the second demon he had gotten his hands on. His words were focused only on Scott, and with each bigoted word, Scott appeared more and more horrified. "… He's a monster," Gordon finished. "So I have to take him out."

"No! That's not me! I wouldn't-" Of course, Scott had not liked the picture that Gordon had painted of him. Before he could continue, Tracee jerked him forward, causing his front to meet the floor in a less than pleasant way. Cassie winced as Scott let out a surprised and pained groaned. Now that he was on the floor, she saw that his hands were indeed bound together. He was helpless in that regard. But this was all a show, so the action of slamming him down must have been for his benefit. Less of a target that way.

"You're right…" Tracee murmured. "He told me that he fried a poor cat, and everyone knows that's how serial killers start. He'll be a monster like you said." Her brown eyes focused on Gordon, and Cassie noticed that the man relaxed somewhat. "You know, I met another one like him. He could use mind control. He had used his ability to rape and murder. He's dead now."

"I knew you'd see it my way," Gordon said, slight chuckle in his voice. "They're all bad news. When I'm done here, I'll track the rest of them down and save the world before it needs saving."

"The rest of them?" Tracee asked.

"Yeah, you got the one with the mind control. There's another one that can move things with his mind," he replied. Cassie's eyes widened in surprise. He had been referring to Max. "That's all the info I got, but there's probably more. Only a matter of time before I find the rest."

"And how did you come across this information?"

"Roadhouse connections," he said with a slight shrug. "The hunter grapevine, as you call it." Tracee didn't react, and so Gordon continued. "It's how I knew where Scotty boy was."

"I see…"

"And there's a real kick in the ass. That demon—he said I knew one of them. Our very own Sammy Winchester." Mostly, Tracee kept her expression neutral, but there was a slight eyebrow jerk. "I know it's probably something you don't want to hear. I made damn sure that was true, but I found out about his visions. Sammy's just like them. I know he's your boyfriend, but he's going to be a monster and we've got to take them all out. Including him. Maybe especially him."

Tracee snorted. Then laughed. Both amused and malicious. "Oh, I'm sorry," she managed to say through the laughter. "I tried to keep up this terrible charade, but that is just ridiculous!" She continued to laugh, causing Gordon to take offense and aim his weapon at her. She didn't bat an eye as she stood to her full height. "Seriously, Bruce, Samuel doesn't have a bad bone in his body. Him a monster…? A guy who won't look me in the eye for several hours after he's caught watching porn  _can't_  be a monster. I mean, Dean has a bigger chance of going vegan than my lover going dark side. But, hey, it was a good joke."

"I'm not joking…!" Gordon insisted. "It's his destiny. It must hurt like hell for you, but denying it won't change-"

"Are you  _done_?" Tracee asked, huffing. Her humor with the situation had vanished. "Because I'd say we have about-" She lifted her left arm, seemingly examining her wrist. There was not a watch in sight. "-five minutes? Yes, five minutes before the popo show."

"What? You brought the  _cops_  into this?"

"What  _else_  would I have done? You kidnapped my friend. Admitted to wanting to kill my other friends, and stalked Scott for a week. Because of this, Scott made a very distressing call to his therapist, giving this address and the description of your vehicle before we came in. Not to mention all those weapons you have in that secret compartment of your car. Surely, they weren't all obtained using legal methods." She smiled sardonically as she folded her arms over her chest. "I'm an upstanding citizen with a low tolerance for major crimes. So yes, the police are involved and they are coming to arrest you. Your endless prattle about saving the world was your distraction."

"You're making a mistake-"

"Spare me, Bruce.  _You_  made the mistake by thinking you are the judge, jury, and executioner of this world," Tracee interrupted. "When, in fact, you're just another executioner.  _Slayers_  take on those three roles,  _not_  hunters. I told you once before, Bruce. Don't  _fuck_  with the Slayer. I  _meant_  it. It's another mistake you've made, not letting that register as a warning. So now, suffer the consequences. The back door is locked and the windows all have hard wood. The only way out is behind me, straight into the arms of the police. Step down gracefully." Gordon had been had, and Tracee hadn't been the least bit sympathetic to him. The man tensed up so much that Cassie could see his muscles bulge underneath his multiple shirts. The Slayer sighed heavily. "So I see it's the hard way, after all."

"No…" Gordon shook his head as he hold on his rifle visibly grew stronger. "I can't go out like this! I have to save the world!"

"That's not your job. Leave it to the girls," Tracee countered. "Speaking of which…" Her gaze shifted to Cassie. "Your prey has been cornered. Time to strike, don't you think?"

Hm. She suppose it was now. The scene had been set up quite nicely for her. The gun wasn't pointing at her anymore. Scott wasn't in harm's way. Gordon had been effectively distracted by the threat of oncoming police cruisers. So without further thought, Cassie jerked her right arm upward, breaking the arm of the chair in the process. Her fingers curled around the back of Gordon's shirt, and before he could crane his neck to look her way, she flung him backwards. She heard his body crash, loudly, against whatever wall, but she was already moving to free her other arm. Tracee moved forward, lowering herself to untie her ankles from the legs of the chair.

"You really do have some nice legs," she complimented.

Stifling an eye roll, Cassie reached up to remove the gag from her mouth. Once done, she stood just as Tracee finished removed the rest of the rope. She walked over to where Gordon's body had landed. She had to step through the opening his body had created. Disoriented, he stood on shaky legs and attempted to aim his weapon at her, but she quickly smacked the rifle from his hands with a well-placed kick. The weapon clattered against the floor, out of reach. "Wha-What are you? What are you, bitch?! Demon?! Vampire?!" Clearly, the man had completely lost his cool. He lunged at her, fist coming fast. But not as fast as the punches she had already gotten used to.

Cassie tilted her upper body to the right, dodging the strike with ease. Undeterred, Gordon went for her again and again. His efforts were… sloppy. Each time he tried to punch, Cassie merely danced around his attempts. Maybe the collision with the wall had shook him more than she had thought. She had expected more of a challenge out of a hunter. Then again, this particular hunter was a little unhinged at the moment.  _Tch_. Becoming fed up, Cassie narrowed her eyes. Instead of dodging his next attempt, she moved forward into his personal space, deflecting the punch by bringing up her arm. She then countered by ramming her palm against his jaw. Gordon jerked to the side, stumbling away before falling to the floor. The strength behind the hit hadn't been enough to break anything, but Cassie realized with a start that she could have broken something. Broken him completely because he was human.

Frowning now, the Slayer walked over to the fallen man, the sound of her heels clicking against the floorboards caused Gordon to flinch away, but he wasn't quick enough. Cassie reached forward, grabbing the front of his plaid shirt. She lifted him from the ground. The man stared at her, eyes and mouth wide open. He had finally realized the gravity of his situation. "There it is…" she said. Glaring, he tried so hard to remove her curled fingers from his shirt. Cassie shook her head, hair tickling her bare shoulders. "Kodak moment."

"I don't know what you are… but you're no better than the filthy things I hunt!" Gordon bit out, white hot anger in his voice.

A full on glare worked its way on Cassie's face. She opened her mouth, prepared to give a scathing retort, but flashes of blue and red light caught her attention. So the police's involvement hadn't been a bluff after all. It seemed as though Gordon wouldn't be hunting anything or anyone for quite some time now. Calming herself, Cassie refocused her attention back on the dangling man. "Bully for you," she told him sarcastically. "And for the record, Tracee already told you, right? It's  _Slayer_." Then with no further warning, she delivered a sharp strike to his head, rendering him unconscious.

Over an hour later, Cassie found herself leaning against the side of her car, eyes watching as the last police cruiser drove away. Gordon had been arrested, statements had been made, and hospitalizations had been offered only to be turned down. The story they had told for the police had been mostly the truth. Only they had replaced Cassie's role with Scott. He had been taken outside while the two women had been left at the restaurant. They had been lured to the abandoned home, and Tracee had said she had knocked the dangerous man unconscious with her black belt skills. Scott had verified, playing the role of victim quite nicely. Cassie had said little about her involvement other than she hadn't wanted to be involved in the first place. All had been believable statements. And the fact that Scott's former therapist had attested to the danger, on top of finding numerous weapons that Gordon had possessed, would mean that a pretty solid case could be built. The hunter would be spending quite a bit of time behind bars where he couldn't resume his crusade against psychics.

After the flashing lights completely disappeared, Scott almost shyly turned his attention to the two Slayers. He had declined the offer of one of the policemen to take him home. He pressed his lips together, fingers reaching up to massage his temple. "Thanks… for this—for saving me," he muttered. "If it wasn't for you two, I might have died."

"It's what we're here for—saving people," Tracee remarked with a slight smile. She pushed herself from the car, reaching out to lightly pat his shoulder. "Sorry about the bruise." Scott lightly touched his darkened cheek. That earlier slam against the ground had been more realistic than feint. He then shrugged, not bothered about what had needed to be done. "Now that you know these things, what will you do?"

" _Um_ …" he shook his head, giving a slight shrug.

"There are people you can talk to about this, you know," Tracee stated. "I could pass on a few numbers for you."

"I'd like that," Scott said. "I think… I think I'll stop going to see Dr. Waxler. Now that I know I'm not completely crazy." He chuckled wryly. "And… I'm going to master my ability." Now, that was surprising. Before, the man had been downright hostile to the implication that he could be a freak. He had only used his ability so that he could control it, nothing more. And even then, he hadn't risked touching anyone. Now, he seemed to be more accepting. He must have noticed the befuddled looks from both Slayers. "I have to learn. That guy might not be the only one after me. And I can't expect you to stay here and save me every time. If I master this ability, I can defend myself. Also-" He sighed heavily. "-I don't want to be manipulated into using my powers by this yellow-eyed… demon. If I have my own motivations, then I won't follow someone else's."

"That's… That's good," Tracee said, appearing thoughtful. Cassie wondered where her mind at gone. Still, she smiled as though his words had affected her. "Glad I don't have to worry about you, Scott." She gestured to the car with a thumb. "Now, let's head back to the restaurant. I wasn't playing about that risotto." A light chuckle left his mouth before he nodded his head and moved to get in the back seat of the car. Once the door shut, Tracee turned to her fellow Slayer. "So…? Did you get anything more?"

"Yeah, he sang like a canary," Cassie admitted. Her friend hummed lightly. "I'll tell you about it later. It might be too much for Scott right now." Tracee gave a slight nod, accepting the reasoning for the stall, and then headed to the passenger side. Cassie sighed heavily, and then opened up her driver's side door. The information was a lot to take in. Scott was only now starting to come around. News of his potential involvement with an apocalypse, though, was another story entirely. She could only hope that Tracee would take the news well. The true worry would be Dean's reaction.

 

0-0

 

Taking a deep breath, Dean shut his eyes. It felt like he had been bracing himself for hours. Sam had noticed his fidgeting, and had made several comments. Luckily, Dean had managed to evade the questions and concerns. The twisting of his nerves had to do with what was on the other side of this door. It had been a full week since the task of gathering information had been given. Tracee and Cassie had returned from their road trip, and had given a confirmation of new information on Thursday. Now Friday, it was time to face the music. Scott Carey had known something more. Of course, Tracee hadn't revealed anything when he had called, having had told him it would be best to get the information face to face. Ever since, he had been on pins and needles. Honestly, he had been hoping for something easy, but Tracee's tone had been subdued.

Dean let out a puff of air before raising his arm. No way around it now. He had to know. So despite the fidgeting, he knocked on the door. Lights were still on in the house, so it wouldn't be too long before someone answered. Still, he knocked again after a few seconds went by. The third set of knocks was interrupted mid-way due to the door opening. "Dean…!" Hearing the squeal of his name actually calmed him down a little. Tracee stood on the other side of the door, smile spreading across her face. She immediately threw her arms around his middle, clearly happy to see him. Unable to help himself, he returned the hug. This was good. Since she was so excited to see him, maybe the news wasn't so bad. "Where's Samuel…?" Tracee asked as she reared back.

"Priorities, Trace," Dean said, resisting the urge to roll his eyes. Before she could make some gross comment about his brother's body being a priority, he stepped to the side and gave a head tilt behind him, gesturing to where Sam and the Impala were. "I decided to be nice. Booked a room before coming, so-" Tracee needed no further explanation. She squealed, thanked him, and then nearly catapulted off the porch. Dean watched the tiny tank rush towards his brother, and Sam, who had been leaning against the driver side door, stepped forward and opened his arms to welcome his girlfriend. Even in the dark, Sam's face could be seen. He had lit up at the sight of her. Tracee jumped up, wrapping her arms and legs around him. They kissed, and… they were going to make out right there, weren't they? Yup, they were. Okay. Awesome.

Rolling his eyes, Dean turned away and headed into the house. "Cassie…?" he called out as he shut the door behind him. Somewhere further in, he heard her say she was in the kitchen. She told him to make himself comfortable. So he headed into the living room. He removed his jacket and tossed it on the comfy chair. As he did, he noticed the pile of pictures on the coffee table. There were vials of nail polish, too, so Dean could only assume that the two had been in the middle of girl time. He sat down on the couch. Curious, he reached for the pictures, gathering them up to look.

Swiping through the photos, he saw images of Tracee and Cassie—together and separated—doing various things. Eating, laughing, posing, and making silly faces. Obviously, they had had a good time. Dean felt his smile slowly spread with each new captured memory. Then his hands stopped moving, halting on a picture with a guy in it. Both women had their arm around him as they smiled for the camera. The guy didn't smile, but there's no way he hadn't enjoyed being sandwiched in between them. His eyebrows drew closer together before he moved on to the next picture. Same guy… The rest of the pictures had him actually. Judging from the different outfits, it hadn't been a single event either.

"I guess you're staying the night then?" Cassie's voice caused Dean to sharply look up. She stood across from him, hands behind her back and dressed in a black t-shirt and purple pajama pants. Dean stood up, not really sure why he did, but he did, and was about to open his mouth to answer, but the sound of screeching tires cut him off and made Cassie shift her gaze from him to the window behind him. He looked, too. Through the sheer curtains, he saw the Impala peeling down the road, much faster than necessary. "That answers that," Cassie muttered, sounding mildly amused. "She didn't even have shoes on last time I checked." Dean did a mental playback of his encounter with the tiny tank, and realized that Cassie had been right. Her feet had been bare expected for the dark red nail polish.

"You don't sound surprised," he said, turning to face her again.

"Tracee might have mentioned, in unnecessary detail, what she planned to do to your brother," she replied with a shrug. Dean made a face, hoping that she wouldn't provide a quote. "They're still cute."

"Yeah, okay," he mumbled. Then he realized that Cassie hadn't removed her hands from behind her back. Dean frowned, and then tilted his head. "You got something there?" Her eyes looked away for a second, and then slowly revealed what she had been hiding. Four shot glasses covered the fingers of one hand. In her other hand, she gripped a bottle of whiskey. Dean swallowed hard, realizing what the presence of alcohol meant. He had never known Cassie to drink hard liquor—not enough that she would keep the stuff lying around. She was a fruity drink type of girl, so seeing that she had some, she must have thought he would need it. Fuck. How bad was this? "Oh, God…" Dean managed despite the way his nerves had begun to shake again.

For her part, Cassie took his reaction with ease. She moved around the coffee table, and then pushed it further away from the couch. Sitting down on the floor, she placed the shot glasses on the table. Dean awkwardly watched her as she pressed her back against the front of the couch and then proceeded to open the bottle. It had been unopened previously, so this was obviously for him. Fuck. Cassie cleared her throat as she patted the spot next to her. Dean caught the hint, and then slowly lowered himself to sit beside her. Legs crossed Indian style, he copied her position. "That's Scott," she said and began pouring the golden liquor into the glasses.

"It… It looks like you had fun with him," Dean mentioned, back as stiff as the surface he was pressed against. He put the photos back on the table, willing himself not to tremble on the outside.

"He's a fun guy," Cassie said, lowering the bottle once she was done pouring. "Once he opened up to us, and accepted that he wasn't crazy, he turned into quite the likeable guy. We spent the rest of our time in Lafayette with him. He was… in Tracee's dream. Help me, he told us." Here it was. They had found another one, other than Max Miller. The ball was about to be dropped. This was what he had wanted. Information. It had been the reason he had been nice in the first place. So that he could take in the information and not have to worry about Sam seeing his reaction. But…

"So what's this guy's thing?" Dean blurted. Cassie pressed her lips together, probably recognizing the stalling tactic. She took it in stride, though, indulging his need for time to brace himself. Her fingers lightly curled around one of the shot glasses, and slowly slid it in front of him. Dean gratefully took the shot, swallowing the liquid in one gulp. He burned good on the way down, and he could almost feel his nerves calming.

"He has power over electricity," Cassie stated. To his surprise, she picked up a shot glass and downed it like a pro. She let out a shuddering breath, not paying attention to his awed expression. "He told us that his touch can fry the insides of a living thing."

"That doesn't sound like a psychic," Dean muttered.

"Yeah, I thought so, too, so this generation of psychics aren't just restricted to just mind abilities," Cassie slid another glass over to him. "Scott learned to control it, but he plans on mastering the ability. But don't worry. He's a good guy. He won't use his powers for bad things." Dean snorted lightly. He would take her at her word, but that didn't mean he would trust someone he didn't know. "He said he had dreams of the yellow-eyed demon." And just like that, the tension came back full force. He took the next shot, and then nearly slammed the glass down. Cassie didn't flinch. She only poured more whiskey into the two shot glasses. "For three months, the Demon told him that his plans involved people like Scott being soldiers in a war."

"Well, that's not ambiguous at all!" Dean retorted sarcastically. "That's all he knew?"

"Yeah, basically, but…" Cassie took in a deep breath. "That's not the kicker, Dean." She gestured towards his full shot glasses. Oh, God… This was it. This was the thing. Dean wisely drank one of them, and then turned his full attention on her. He nodded his head, silently telling her to go on. "You were right about a wild card appearing. This one came in the form of Gordon Walker." As she retold what had happened when the hunter had made his appearance, Dean like the world spun too fast. Like it was about to implode.

"That son of a bitch…!" he growled angrily once Cassie had finished. Inside, though, he was freaking out. Gordon, of all the hunters that it could have been, had known about Sam. He had said he got information from the Roadhouse. Damn it! Dean had known it hadn't been a good idea to run there. Someone had blabbed, and he was already thinking of calling Ellen to yell at her. Who else would have told? Jo and Ash had left, and only the older Harvelle had a reason to be spiteful. "I shouldn't have let him live!"

"He's out of the way for now," Cassie stated. "He's not going to come after Sam. And even if he did, I'm sure Tracee wouldn't be as merciful." Dean took some comfort in that—the thought of Gordon being careful to not drop the soap was amusing—but he was still wired with that onslaught of information. Clenching his jaw, he drummed his fingers against the top of the coffee table. Again, Cassie gestured to the next shot. Again, Dean threw the drink back with no hesitation. The woman beside him picked up her full glass, but chose to sip at the liquor this time. Her quiet contemplation made him stop and think. She had been sitting on this information for days now. Cassie, a normal woman, had been shoved into their problems, their lives, and now she knew about a demonic war and possibly the end of the world. Maybe the alcohol hadn't been only for him, after all.

"That's not Sam," Dean said, cutting through the heavy silence. "He's basically a saint, and he's not some pushover, so willingly or not, he wouldn't become a monster that opens the door for evil! And… And demons lie, anyway!" Cassie called his name, finally turning her eyes back to him, but he barely acknowledged her attempt. "Just because Gordon was moronic enough to believe them doesn't mean he's got a friggin'  _destiny_! No—all that means is some asshole demon  _wants_  to use Sam and the other psychics. It's a  _plan_! Plans can be stopped! It's not written in stone!" Dean realized he was ranting. He also recognized that his voice had gotten louder the more he rambled. He needed to calm down, but he couldn't. The panic had rose in his chest and had lodged in his throat.

This was  _a lot_. Had it really all come to this? They used to be normal. Well,  _their_  normal, anyway. Saving people, hunting things. It was what they were good at. They were good at the  _job_. Simple. Easy. But now, that had gone sideways. This wasn't just the job anymore. Dean didn't believe in destiny. Everyone had a choice. That written in the stars, meant to be, mumbo jumbo was a bunch of crap. But fate or no, it didn't change the fact that things were gunning for his little brother. And not just things. Demons. Hunters. They were all gunning because  _they_  believed. How was he supposed to protect Sam from everything and everyone? This was too much. This was bigger than anything he had expected. How could… How could he possibly take on something like this?

And suddenly, he was snapped back to reality. Dean became aware of his heart going as fast as his thoughts. And that he was breathing hard. Although aware, those things were ignored due to the curled fingers and thumb that had gripped his chin. Slowly, his head was turned and he met the intense gaze of Cassie head on. Like a deer caught in headlights, he stared back at her eyes wide. "That's not what you should be focusing on  _right now_ ," she told him. After a beat of silence, she released her hold on him. "The reason you wanted to know more information is because of what your dad said. You know your dad better than anyone. If he had come across the same thing as Gordon, would he have reacted by giving that ultimatum as his last words to you? Is this the answer?"

"I-I… Maybe," Dean replied. Honestly, John Winchester was a black and white type of man. Even if it was his own son, if he had more time, he might have… Dean squeezed his eyes shut, not wanting to think about it. That want didn't stop the images of his dad screaming at Sam to kill him while the Demon possessed his body. If it came down to it, John was someone that would do what needed to be done. No matter the cost.  _Tch_. Cassie sighed lightly, and then reached for the bottle of whiskey. She poured the liquid in both shot glasses again. Dean watched, almost in a trance as the whisky reached the rim of the glasses. "I'm not gonna kill my brother. No way."

"… I'd be worried if you thought those were the only two options," Cassie admitted, pouring her own drinks. "I can't even imagine what you must be feeling about this—towards your dad, but I know  _you_. You'd find another way." She narrowed her eyes, and then downed her shot. Dean grunted, reaching for a shot glass to follow her example. For a moment, they sat in silence, just drinking. Then Cassie cleared her throat, and it was at that moment Dean had realized that he couldn't hear his own heartbeat anymore. "Now that you know, the next thing to do would be to tell Sam."

"Yeah, because that's gonna end well," he retorted.

"Probably not," Cassie agreed. "But you were right. What Gordon found out doesn't sound like destiny. It's not a prophecy as far as I can see. It's just a goal set in motion by demons. Doesn't mean it has to happen. I'll look more into it to see if I can find something else that might-"

"Oh no,  _you're_  done!" Dean interrupted with a shake of his head. Cassie turned to him, raising both eyebrows and giving him a look of disbelief. "I mean it! You already got kidnapped over this. I'm not going to let you keep throwing yourself in harm's way. You did me this favor, and I'm thanking you for that, but that's it. Leave the rest of it to me."

"It doesn't just fall on  _your_  shoulders, Dean!" Cassie snapped back. "You think I can just go quietly in the night after knowing about this?! People that I care for are in the middle of it! How can you expect me not to get involved? I'm already in so deep, and I'll be  _damned_  before I let you—any of you—go in blind and get hurt when I could have done something to help! Getting the truth is my job! I like doing it, and you can't keep me from that! I'm choosing this, Dean!" Then she shut her mouth, visibly swallowing hard as her eyes expanded as though realizing the meaning of her own words. "… I'm  _choosing_  this," she repeated, softer than before. "This is my reality now, too. So I'm going to help you whether you like it or not. You're not alone in this. You have your brother. You have Tracee. You have me, too." She pressed her lips together, turning her line of sight to the coffee table. "Before, I didn't listen to you. But I'm listening now... so trust me."

It was probably a stupid thing to do, and all the whiskey he had drank probably hadn't helped, but Dean didn't try to stop himself. He leaned towards Cassie, pressing a hard kiss to her cheek. He felt her tense, but she didn't recoil because of the sudden contact. He squeezed his eyes shut, mentally berating himself, but unable to pull away just yet. Why couldn't she have been like this before? She was opening the door wide and was letting in his life. No, she probably wasn't going to be popping ghost professionally, but… it was something she hadn't bothered to give him before. And that was acceptance. Trust her…? He had done that before, and it had bit him in the ass, but this was different somehow. He  _wanted_  to. He shouldn't after she had she done, but… he wanted to take a risk again. Maybe it wasn't that surprising. Cassie had always had a passive way of making him  _want_.

Dean slowly reared back and opened his eyes. Cassie breathed through her nose, relaxing before opening her eyes and turning her gaze to him. "Thank you," he found himself whispering. She nodded her head, not bothering to put distance between them. He had always liked looking at her this close. Close enough to see the various shades of brown in her eyes. Soft, warm and inviting like a real home.  _No_ , his mind urged him. He had to stop this before it turned into something that wasn't possible anymore. Reluctantly, Dean reared back further, taking a deep breath. He loudly cleared his throat, trying to focus on the shot glasses in front of him. "Couldn't stop you, anyway," he continued.

"Nope," Cassie sighed out. He heard her turning, and he risked a peek. She had made a grab for the bottle of whiskey again. She poured more. "When are you going to tell Sam?"

"Don't know," Dean muttered, reaching for the next shot. He ignored the way she tried to swipe at his hand because he had gone for hers. He threw it back, gritting his teeth. "Trace's not gonna let me keep hedging. Whenever it is, it's not gonna be pretty."

"After he knows, you both can focus on what this information actually means. Right now, it's good not to be so in the dark with this demon's plan, right?" she asked. Dean pursed his lips, but nodded in agreement. "It'll be okay, so don't get so worked up again."

"… Listen, Cassie, I know I can't stop you, but just… just be careful," he said, watching her drink. Her brown eyes glanced his way before she completly down the rest of the whiskey in her shot. "I know you can take care of yourself, but seriously, if it gets too hot, you have to promise me to leave it alone."

"It's fine, Dean," Cassie said. "Two years ago, I was doing a story on human trafficking. Believe it or not, it's not the first time I've been tied up. I still shut that ring down and got out alive."

"Alright, ass kicker, but promise me anyway."

"… I promise."

0-0


	32. Infection & Panic

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is way too long, but I didn't want to separate it, so enjoy.

Without a goal, Tracee ran. The sun, high in the sky, shined down on her as she raced through a seemingly never-ending cemetery. Gritting her teeth, she sidestepped and dodged the headstones, never needing to slow down. The names on the slabs of stone were blurs as she moved along. There was an urgency within her, but she didn't know the reason for it. She just ran as fast as she could. Despite the snow and wind biting against her flesh, she couldn't stop. Images flashed in her mind. Cassie moving in the dark, a staff twirling in her hands with both ends on fire. A glass chalice smashing against the ground, splattering blood against the surface. Dean being thrown backwards into a grey void, mouth opened in a silent shout. An unknown man with dark hair and glowing blue eyes in a beige trench coat, standing in a room with strange symbols on the walls. Two hands from separate people engulfed by flames.

On repeat, the visualizations flittered through her mind, blurring and blending together. Tracee couldn't begin to focus on them now, though. A target had appeared ahead and the presence made her blood resonate. Vaulting over a gravestone, she broke free of the cemetery. The clear field around was ignored in favor of tackling the man to the ground. They tumbled and rolled, limbs tangling together until Tracee caught and kept her advantage. She gripped his throat and reared her other hand back, preparing to slam it down. Realizing who she was straddling made her stop. "Samuel…!" Her lover grinned at her, which made her loosen her grip on his throat. "I didn't recognize you."

"Sorry about that," he replied, completely at ease underneath her. Tracee sighed lightly, a small chuckle leaving her mouth. She relaxed, settling on top of him. Sam lifted, hands sliding around her waist. "I've got you, Cherry."

He pressed his mouth and nose against her neck, roughly nuzzling. He breathed in deeply, pulling her closer. Tracee bit her lower lip as she felt her lover open his mouth. His teeth grazed her skin. Shivers coursed through her, causing her to release a shaky gasp. Then he bit down. Hard. Tracee moaned loudly as the pain and pressure from his teeth churned within her. It felt like electrical currents had replaced her blood. Breathing hard, she curled her fingers around the back of his shirt and leaned further into him.

"S-Samuel…"

He suddenly slammed her down to the ground, fingers squeezing her forearms and teeth sinking deeper.  _Guh_. So hot, it completely replaced the cold air around them, vanquishing the environment completely. Tracee squeezed her eyes shut, writhing underneath him as his tongue glided across her wet neck. Then it was over. He slowly reared back, leaving her body feeling drained. She cracked open her eyes, blurry gaze attempting to focus on him. "You feel so good—real good," he whispered. Eyes shut, he sighed out in ecstasy. The blurriness faded and her gaze sharpened on him. His mouth opened in a wicked grin, her blood staining his teeth and lips. Disturbing and oddly… erotic. Then he opened his eyes, revealing constricted pupils and the color of golden irises instead of the familiar hazel. "Mine…!" he insisted, nearly growling.

"Yes," she returned in a hissing whisper. "Yes!"

0-0

Tracee flinched awake, eyes going wide. From her place at the desk, she shuddered, and then sat up. She looked around, noting the ripped paperback novel in her right hand. "Damn it," she muttered, frowning. Uncurling her fingers, she released the destroyed book. She had recently purchased it, and had almost made it to the end. Sighing, she slid her finger tips against her temple. It was actually a compelling read, which was why she had stayed up, hunching over the motel room's desk instead of in bed with Sam. But apparently, she had fallen asleep. Tracee stood up from her chair, reaching for the ceiling in a stretch. What a dream…

Absently, she wondered if it counted as a Slayer dream, or was it just another fantasy. Regardless of how long they had been together, her mind often indulged her with sensual visions of Samuel Winchester. Stifling a grin, Tracee glanced at the bed. Speaking of him, her lover hadn't awoken from his nap yet. He had wanted to get in some sleep before the movie marathon. Dean had left in order to pick up the snacks. They had all decided to stay up late and watch movies. Well, decided was a bit of an aggressive word choice. It had been more of a lazy agreement. Lazy agreements had been the norm these last couple of weeks. It had been Tracee's doing.

She had been quite taken aback by Sam's recount of Dean's arrest in Baltimore. Then, right after they had escaped, they had gone to Mississippi and tangled with a Crossroad Demon. Obviously, the two hadn't realized what 'too much trouble' entailed. Both had been punished for it. Actually, Sam had seemed to like his punishment. It was now known that her lover was quite the edging supporter. Such a pervert. Dean had spent an entire twenty four hours recovering from a hangover. He had complained and groused the entire time, saying that it had been unfair that Cassie hadn't gone through the same thing. To cover for her best friend, Tracee had explained that Cassie hadn't downed half a bottle of whisky on an empty stomach like Dean had. Thankfully, he had accepted that explanation. All in all, it hadn't been too hard to convince the brothers to take time off hunting. They all needed it. Some, more so, than others.

Cassie had informed her how Dean had taken the news about the Demon's plans. Denial and anger. She had expected that. Hell, she had denied it herself. Hyperventilation, though? No. She had not expected that from him. Understandable, but not expected. Sam could potentially lead to an apocalypse whether he would be forced to or not. Also, Sam had told her that he believed Dean might have accepted the Crossroad Demon's offer to bring back John Winchester, condemning himself to Hell. Of course, it had never been said out loud, but Sam was worried. Dean had been feeling the pressure. It had probably been the reason he had gotten so badly drunk those weeks ago.

So yes, vacation had been enforced to take their minds off of the more serious matters. Obviously, they would need to talk eventually. After all, they now had information and they could get in front of that ridiculous piece of advice. It was only a matter of time before they told Sam about John's last words. But for now, they were going to be as laidback as possible. Not thinking about jobs or demons or-

The distinctive sound of a body hitting the floor caught her attention and effectively snapped her out of her thoughts. Sam no longer lied on top of the bed. Mildly alarmed, she headed over, climbing on top of the bed and stared down. From his spot on the floor, Sam rapidly blinked. He didn't seem to grasp his surroundings just yet. "Samuel…?" she called to him. Her lover shook his head, seemingly trying to clear his head. His heavy breaths were a bit concerning. He hadn't responded to her either. "Hey," she tried to get his attention again. This time, Sam sat up, right hand gripping the red cover.

So focused on Sam, Tracee almost missed the sound of the door opening. She merely glanced behind her to see that Dean had come back. He yanked on a bit of jerky with his teeth, eyes focusing on them. "What happened?" he questioned. Shrugging, Tracee returned her full attention on Sam. She reached for him, palm cupping his cheek and turning his head to face her. Wide eyed, his gaze finally focused on her. His cheeks were flushed and there was a bit of sweat at his temple. "What's going on?"

"I… I had another vision."

"I suppose that means vacation's over?" Tracee murmured, holding back a sigh. She moved her hand from his face to his shoulder and held out her other hand. Sam grabbed onto her hand and allowed himself to be lifted. "Do you need water?" she questioned as he sat on the edge of the bed beside her. Slowly, he shook his head, telling her that he didn't have a headache. Hm. Scott had told her that he had stopped getting headaches the longer the year went on. So it could be that Sam wasn't just trying to keep them from worrying. Dean stepped closer, dropping the bag of snacks and case of beer on the bed behind them. "What'd you see?"

After a basic retelling of his latest vision, Sam fell silent. Elbows against the top of his thighs, he curled his fingers into fists. Dean was at a loss as well. Apparently, he would be taking out a tied up man with two shots from his gun. It was heavy news to receive, especially since it hadn't made sense. Dean wouldn't kill anyone without reason. Also, why would he be alone? Where would Sam and Tracee be during this future event? "What else?" Dean asked. "I mean, that can't be it. You're telling me I ventilate a guy tied to a chair? Was it a demon? Was he possessed?"

"I don't know," Sam shook his head.

"Well, all your weirdo visions are always tied to the yellow-eyed demon somehow, so was there any black smoke? Did we try to exorcise him?"

"No, nothing, you just plugged him. That's it."

Dean opened his mouth, maybe to protest, but Tracee held up her hand. "That doesn't matter right now. The vision didn't give clues as to  _why_  you shot this stranger," she stated. "And it also cut off before Sam could see the effects of you shooting him. So let's focus on the people in the room for now. The ones who witnessed it. How did they react to Dean?" She soothingly slid her fingers up and down his side, hoping it would relax him enough to think straight. Sam released a heavy sigh. He closed his eyes in thought.

"They were pretty freaked out. They were scared," he answered. "Wait…" His eyes opened and he blinked once. "I don't think they were scared of Dean. They were hesitant, but no one tried to stop him or tell him to stop. And Dean… didn't look like he wanted to do it either."

"Anything else…?" Tracee asked.

"I think… it happened in a room at some type of hospital," Sam mentioned. "It was dark, but there were two women. One was a doctor, and the other was wearing nurse scrubs."

"So he was sick with something then."

"You don't kill sick people, Dean," Sam retorted.

"All right, before  _that_  escalates, let's check it out," Tracee interrupted whatever the older Winchester would say. "Do you have any idea where this place could be?" Sam nodded his head. "Right then, let's pack it up and solve a mystery." Both brothers gave her a look. Slight disapproval. She should probably not be grinning so hard about a man's life being on the line, after all. "I mean… we should pack it up and try to save this guy before he takes two to the head."

"You don't have to pretend, Trace. We know you're excited," Dean said. "Why  _are_  you excited about me wasting some innocent bastard?"

"I've always wanted to solve a case that clears the name of someone I care about," Tracee told them. "Father used to pretend to be a criminal—like stealing a priceless artifact—and I was tasked with figuring out why while remaining impartial to the prime suspect."

"Priceless artifact…?" Sam repeated.

"Cookies, or other treats that he would let me eat, if I figured out the motivation without getting emotional. No matter the sob story."

"That explains  _so_  much…" Dean shook his head.

"How old were you the last time that happened?" Sam questioned.

"… I don't… I don't think that matters."

"How old, Trace?"

"… Thirteen." Again, she was given identical looks. This time their expressions were disbelief. "Fine! I was nineteen! Shut up! Let's just go!" Tracee moved from the bed and stormed off to go pack. Laughter from the two dorks followed after her. Despite the slight embarrassment of telling them her guilty pleasures, it succeeded in taking their minds off the road ahead. Maybe this would lead them closer to the Demon. That was the big goal, after all. So ignoring their random bouts of chuckles at her expense, Tracee quickly packed her things as well as Sam's. He had done a bit of research on his laptop, and then announced their destination just as Dean zipped up his bag. River Grove, Oregon. A place that she had never heard of before, so more than likely they were heading to a small town.

They drove through the night, and with a tank full of gas, they hadn't needed to stop. Finally, they reached the town just as the sun rose. Dean found a place to park before cutting the engine. Tracee eyed their surroundings, watching the people go about their morning routines. It seemed like the type of place where everyone knew everyone. A place where neighbors greeted by name. So weird. "He was there," Sam spoke up. Tracee narrowed her eyes, following her lover's pointed finger outside. There was a black man, sitting down on a wooden porch. He held a fishing rod in his hands. "He's the one that thought the tied up guy might be telling the truth." The three of them exited the car, and then moved across the street. The man looked up as they made their approach.

"Morning," Dean greeted.

"Morning," he returned. His dark eyes gave them all a quick onceover. "Can I help you?"

"Yeah," Dean pulled out his fake credentials, and Sam did the same. "Billy Gibbons. Frank Beard. U.S. Marshals." He tilted his head in Tracee's direction. "She's Josephine Hill. We call her Josie."

"No, they don't. I'm their handler," Tracee said.

"Like for animals?" the man narrowed his eyes in suspicion.

" _Shyeah_." She crossed her arms. "The big one is the major animal of the two."

"Stop it," Dean told her. The stranger stared at them, unsure of how to react to that banter. Tracee held back a smirk. "Anyway… We're looking for someone. Wonder if you might know where he is."

"He's a young man. Early twenties. He'd have a thin scar right below his hairline," Sam said.

The man seemed hesitant at first, but eventually he gave in and told them where their person of interest lived, most likely because of Dean's rapport skills and military jargon. Duane Tanner was the name, and he lived with his family. Dean suggested stopping for coffee before heading up that way, so they crossed the street and passed the Impala, intending to head into a café. "Hey," Sam said, causing Tracee and Dean to halt and turn back. The younger Winchester had stopped and seemed to be staring at a telephone pole. The two walked over just as Sam pointed at a certain point on the pole.

"Croatoan…?" Dean muttered, sounding confused.

Tracee, however, was not confused. She had recognized the carved word almost instantly. She felt her eyes expand and chills creep along her body. "No…" Shuddering, she took a step back. Noticing, the brothers looked her way, eyebrows furrowed. "Nope. Nope." Oh Lord, give her strength. She felt incredibly dizzy. "Nope. I can't take-"

"Trace, no! I know that look! Don't you dare pass out!" Dean commanded. His voice effectively snapped her out of her dizzy spell. " _What_  just happened?!" Sam, too, stared in confusion and concern. Tracee took a deep calming breath, squeezing her eyes shut. Once she gathered her wits, she opened her eyes, forcing herself not to stare at the carved word.

"When I was middle school, my history teacher  _very_  enthusiastically told my class about the lost colony in Roanoke," she explained. Dean stared blankly, apparently not picking up what she had thrown down. "Seriously, Dean…? You have no idea what I just said?" He shrugged, and then looked to his brother. Sam stared back at Dean, expression incredulous.

"Did you pay  _any_  attention in history class?" he questioned.

"Yeah! The shot heard around the world… How bills are made," Dean replied, crossing his arms. "I'm just as smart as you two."

"That's not school. That's  _Schoolhouse Rock_ ," Sam stated.

"… Whatever."

"Right then… Quick lesson," Tracee continued. "Back in the day, one of the first English colonies settled in Roanoke. It was also one of the largest. Long story short—a few of the colonizers left. When they returned, the entire settlement was gone. Adults. Children. Hell, even the animals—they had just disappeared."

"Oh, yeah, yeah, yeah… I do remember that," Dean announced. "The only thing they left behind was a single word carved into a tree.  _Croatoan_." Tracee shuddered, wrapping her arms around herself. "Okay, so why does that freak you out, Trace?"

"Because…!" To her shame, her voice raised to a squeak. "To this day, no one knows what happened to the colony. Some people say a nearby Native American tribe sought vengeance against the settlement for stealing and poisoning the land. Others say it was disease. Both make sense in theory, but  _nothing_  was proven. There was no evidence to support such claims. No bodies. No bones. No signs of struggle or force at all. Nothing. They just  _vanished_. It's one of America's greatest unsolved mysteries. I had nightmares about it for almost a month."

"Really…?" Dean didn't seem to share her sentiments.

"Does that, by itself, not scare you?!"

Sam stepped towards her, wrapping his arms tightly around her. Tracee hadn't realized she had been shaking until his warmth settled in. Sighing, she shut her eyes, relaxing completely in his embrace. "Hey, hey, don't freak out. It probably doesn't mean anything," Sam whispered, squeezing tightly. "Sorry I brought attention it… Probably just some kid playing a prank." After a moment or two, he reared back, shifting his hands to rest on her hips. "Now, whatever I saw in my head—that's why we're here. We focus on that, okay?" Tracee slowly nodded her head. "But maybe we should get help. Bobby. Ellen, maybe?"

"No," Dean protested. "You know Ellen's pissed at us." Her anger had supposedly skyrocketed when he had accused the woman of telling Gordon Walker about Sam's visions. She hadn't liked the accusation, and Tracee was pretty sure that bridge had been burned to a crisp. Dean had told her that the shouting had lasted longer than necessary, and there had been name calling involved on both sides. Being drunk at the time, and failing to realize that Ellen hadn't known about psychics with a demonic connection in the first place, hadn't helped matters. "We'll call Bobby," Dean continued, already pulling out his cell phone. He squinted at the tiny screen, frown working its way on his face. "I don't have a signal."

Sam removed his hands from her body, and reached into his jacket pockets. He pulled out his cell phone as well. After a moment's pause, he announced that he didn't have a signal either. "There's a payphone right there," Tracee stated, pointing behind them. Dean turned and headed down the street. He picked up the phone's receiver and held it to his ear. After a few tries of getting a dial tone, Dean shook his head.

"The line's dead," he said. He slammed the receiver down. "I'll tell you one thing—if I was gonna massacre a town, that'd be my first step." Tracee stared at him, disturbed by such a confession. "Well, it would," Dean insisted with a shrug.

"Can we just leave?" Tracee pleaded, faking a sob.

Of course, both dorks told her no.

0-0

After a very short break, the three had climbed back into the Impala and headed up Aspen Way. The Tanner residence was the only house for a few miles. Sam couldn't help but think how secluded this town was despite its low population. If something awful was about to happen like Dean had suggested, this place would be the perfect target. Honestly, he wanted to get to the bottom of why his vision had led them here, and hopefully it would have nothing to do with that random telephone pole with  _Croatoan_  carved into it. Even now, several minutes later, he could tell his girlfriend was still shaken.

Tracee hadn't said much of anything during the drive. She had even stopped eating the muffin that had been bought. Completely out of character for her. Somehow, he still thought of her as fearless, so it had been a complete surprise to find out about her distress to the tale of the Lost Colony. To have it affect her so much, even as an adult… Well, it probably didn't help that she now knew the supernatural existed. As soon as they got some free time, he would definitely figure out a way to relax her. He didn't think just holding her would suffice this time. She was just so wired.

Sam followed a few paces behind Dean and Tracee to the house. He noticed her back was rigid even with her jean jacket concealing it. Just as they approached the door, Sam lifted his hand, palm sliding against the small of her back. He lifted his other hand to knock on the decorated glass window of the door, but he felt his girlfriend's stiff posture decrease somewhat. Better than nothing, he supposed. Per habit, his eyes darted around, taking in the surroundings, as they all waited for the door to be answered. It didn't take long for the door to swing open. The boy looked young enough to be a teenager.

"Yeah…?" he greeted, eyes shifting between the three of them before settling on Dean.

"Hi," Dean returned, showing off the fake badge. "Looking for Duane Tanner. He lives here, right?"

"He's my brother," the kid stated, not looking the least bit concerned about the badge. Maybe it had to do with him being a teenager who didn't care much for authority, but Sam still narrowed his eyes. Suspicion had begun forming. Dean asked if they could speak with Duane. "He's not here right now." Apparently, there was no need to elaborate further, which made another alarm bell ring. Just a statement without an opinion or comment? From a teenager, it seemed a little weird. And the pause before answering had been strange, too.

"Well, do you know where he is?" Tracee prodded, slight annoyance trickling into her voice. She must have picked up on it, too. Again, the kid hesitated. But his hesitation hadn't seem to come from an unwillingness to speak. More like he had been waiting on a cue, and had missed it. Still, he had answered that his brother had gone on a fishing trip. "When will he return?"

"… I don't know."

"Are your parents home?" Sam asked.

"Yeah, they're inside," he said, finally seeming unscripted.

"Jake, who is it?" a man's voice came from further in the house. Seconds later, a middle-aged man stood beside the kid. Presumably, it was the father. Dean, again, introduced them as U.S. Marshals, who were looking for Duane Tanner. "Why? He's not in trouble is he?"

"No, no, no," Dean assured. "We just need to ask him a couple routine questions. That's all."

"When's he due back from his trip?" Sam asked. With just the right level of uncertainty, the father both showed and told that he had no idea. "Well, maybe your wife knows."

"No, I don't know," he answered, looking back. "She's not here."

"Interesting," Tracee remarked. "Because this one-" She gestured to the man's youngest. "-just told us that both of you were inside."

"Did I…?"

The kid's response was as unfeeling as his earlier words. His father corrected that Mrs. Tanner had gone grocery shopping, and they both plastered on fake smiles. Mr. Tanner asked if there was a number to reach them at if his son showed up, but it seemed more a cover than anything. Dean, of course, said they would just come back at a later time. Almost awkwardly, the father and son turned and closed the door behind them. After a few seconds, the three of them left the porch, all frowning by that bizarre interaction.

"That was kinda creepy, right?" Dean remarked. "Little too Stepford?"

"Big time," Sam agreed.

"Can we  _please_  leave?" Tracee crossed her arms. "I'm pretty sure a group of rag-tag heroes will rise and defeat whatever this is without us."

"This isn't a movie, Trace," Dean said. "Now buck up and let's figure out what's going on." Tracee stubbornly remained in place. Sam wrapped an arm around her shoulders, but it did little to calm her tense body.

"Hey, if you stick around even though you're freaked, I'll give you a treat," he bribed. Her eyes narrowed up at him and asked what type of treat. "I think you know what type of treat I'm talking about."

"Oh,  _God_ ," Dean rolled his eyes and stomped away to go around the house.

"Why does he think you mean something naughty?" Tracee grinned. She uncrossed her arms, and leaned against him.

"You. You are the reason," Sam replied, matching her grin. Really, he had only been referring to some cherry-flavored candy, ice cream, maybe, but Dean had taken it wrong. Tracee chuckled lightly before nodding her head. "It's gonna be fine. We'll wrap this up and get outta town as soon as we can." She hummed lightly and nodded again. Then, side by side, they moved to follow Dean.

Quickly catching up to him, they found him at a window looking in. They copied his actions and squinted through the curtains. Inside, they saw a woman tied to a chair and gagged. Mr. Tanner and Jake stood over her. The father had a knife while his son pulled up his sleeve. The entire scene was alarming, made even more so when Jake flexed his arm. And then his father cut into him with the knife.

That had been enough for Dean. He hurriedly made his way to the back door while he pulled out his gun. Sam, too, armed himself and followed his brother to the back door. Coming up between them, Tracee kicked down the door, allowing them access. Sam and Dean immediately went in, guys aimed. The father ignored the shout for him to drop the knife, and instead rushed at them, weapon raised. Three shots rang out and Mr. Tanner dropped to the floor while his son darted off. He crashed through the window and Sam moved to follow.

Tracee was faster. Without hesitation, she leapt through the broken window. Sam made it just in time to catch his girlfriend tackle the boy to the ground. Struggling, she turned him over only to receive a vicious back fist to the face. To his surprise, she soared through the air and slammed against the house. The kid jumped up and began advancing on Tracee. Sam's mind questioned the feat, but his finger was already squeezing the trigger of his gun. Two shots to the chest, and the kid fell back and went still. Ignoring his brother by his side, Sam rushed back outside. He found Tracee holding the back of her hand against her cheek. "Are you alright?" he asked.

"He… He was  _strong_ ," she said. Sam lifted her from her crouched position. Her eyes remained on the body. Sam swallowed hard and forced himself not to look at what he had done. Damn it. He, Jake, had been just a kid. "It's not demon possession, though," Tracee continued. "No smoke."

"Yeah. So what the hell?" Sam murmured, squeezing his eyes shut. Tracee hummed lightly, hand reaching out to slide up and down his side. He opened his eyes again, but his girlfriend hadn't turned her gaze away from the body. She just seemed to sense his bubbling guilt and had reacted to soothe him without being consciously aware of it. "Thank you," he said quietly.

"Darling," she whispered, shifting her focus on him. "Something was clearly wrong with the both of them, and it might have something to do with your vision. This isn't your fault." Sam gave a jerky nod. "What do we do now?"

"Let's find a hospital for the Mrs.," Dean suggested, having had heard from his place at the broken window. "We'll bring Stepford and Son with us." Good plan. They had a witness, and would be better for them if they tried to look the part of good Samaritans if they had tried to bring in the two to  _help_  them. Tracee headed over to the boy, first checking for a pulse by pressing her fingers under his chin, and then she lifted his lifeless body from the ground. "Sammy, get in here and help." Snapping out of it, Sam nodded and moved to go back into the house.

About half an hour later, Sam stood beside Dean and Tracee, listening to the victim's tale of her husband and son turning on her. They had beat her before tying her up. It pretty horrific, but his eyes kept glancing at the other two women in the room. The closest thing to a hospital this town had to offer was a clinic, staffed by a doctor and a nurse—Amanda Lee and Pam Clayton respectively. The two women had been in his vision. The only ones missing now were the  _Master Sergeant_  and Duane Tanner. Sooner or later, his vision would come true, and his brother would kill a man that would plead for his life. It was a chilling thought. But if the bodies in another part of the clinic proved anything, it was that Dean would have a reason.

"… One minute, they were my husband and son," Mrs. Tanner—Beverly, according to the doctor—voice raw from crying, whispered hoarsely. "And the next… they had the  _devil_  in them." She lowered her head, eyes becoming blank again. She had done a lot of that on the car ride back into town—hadn't spoken a word until they had made it to the clinic. A nudge to Sam's arm caused him to focus on his brother. Dean tilted his head, indicating they needed to talk elsewhere, and then began walking away. Tracee, seeing it as well, followed both of them to the waiting room.

"Those guys were whacked outta their gourds," Dean remarked, turning to face them. "Got any idea what this is yet?"

"Not demon," Tracee said, crossing her arms. "And as far as my senses go, not anything inherently supernatural either. Which is odd because that kid threw me without any effort." She sighed heavily through her nose. "Supernatural, but not supernatural. This is quite the conundrum we've stumbled across."

"Yeah, something turned them into monsters, and we gotta figure out what," Dean said.

"How are we going to do that?" Sam questioned.

Just then, the clicking sound of heels against the floor caught their attention. The three of them turned to see a disconcerted doctor coming their way. "I've got an idea," Tracee said. The doctor came to a stop in front of them, opening her mouth, probably to demand answers, but Tracee stepped towards her, effectively cutting the woman off before she could begin. "We need you to examine the two bodies."

"I-" The order seemed to halt the woman's ire. "But I'm just the doctor. We would need a coroner."

"Lines are dead," Tracee retorted. "You're the next best thing. You know the human body, right? You can tell if something's in their system that shouldn't be—hints of drugs, or anything like that. Hillary may not know what her son and husband got up to."

"Her name's Beverly," the doctor corrected. "Can…" She trailed off, probably remembering her earlier irritation. "Can't you at least tell me what the hell happened up there?! Half of my next door neighbors have been killed! I deserve to know what's going on! Why did U.S. Marshals shoot-"

" _Deserve_ …?!" Tracee cut in, voice increasing in volume. " _You_  are a small town doctor. Why would we tell you anything about what we're currently investigating? You want an explanation? Fine.  _Finefinefinefine_. The only explanation you're getting is that this is a potential crisis, and if you want to make it out alive, you follow the chain of command! Since the radio communication is off the table, we can't contact anyone outside this town, so listen and follow instruction. Provide helpful suggestions if you must, but keep your questions at a minimum. The less you know the better off you'll be. So, doctor… Bodies. Examine.  _Now_!" The doctor's mouth snapped shut, eyes growing wide. She even took a step back. Sam couldn't see Tracee's expression, but he suspected that the Slayer had bled through. Being on the receiving end was no laughing matter.

"I-" Again, she paused, and then dipped her chin in agreement. "Yes, Marshal. I'll examine the bodies." She pressed her lips together, clasping her hands in front of her. "The… The closest town to us might have communication, though. It's about forty miles away—Sidewinder."

"Good," Dean said. "I'm gonna go down there. See if I can get some help. My partners will stick around and keep you safe." Amanda quickly nodded her head, and then turned to go. Tracee followed after her, arms still folded over her chest. Keeping a sigh to himself, Sam stepped forward, intending to trail behind, but Dean clamped a hand over the top of his shoulder. "I need to talk to you real quick," he said. His brother led him outside of the clinic to where the Impala had been parked. "So Trace's clearly on edge."

"Yeah," Sam agreed. Under normal circumstances, Tracee wouldn't care enough to raise her voice to a stranger. Unless that stranger had made the mistake of hurting someone she cared for. Also, the amount of times she had said the word 'fine' was another thing. The last, and only time, he had heard her say that she and Dean had gotten into an argument that led them to cooking against each other.

His brother had made some comment about  _Hell's Kitchen_  probably. With Bobby and Sam as the judges, Tracee and Dean had both cooked her signature pasta dish. Dean had won. Tracee had said 'fine' several times in rapid succession, pissed that Dean had bested her. Of course, there had been bragging, which abruptly ended when she had thrown Dean across the room. He had landed on the couch, unharmed, but he had learned not to provoke her that way anymore. Sam also had to sleep on said couch because he had voted for Dean.

"I mean, that kid surprised her, but I don't think he would normally be able to get the drop on her," Dean continued. "Like she said, this could be a crisis, and I'm not looking forward into going into battle with half a Slayer. Any idea on how to calm her down?"

"I… maybe…" Truthfully, Tracee would be the one to do the calming down. She was the level-headed one. The  _most_  level-headed one. There hadn't been many instances where he had the opportunity. But Sam was confident he could take her mind off  _Croatoan_. That single word had been the reason for her anxiety. "She'll be fine by the time you get back with help," Sam continued, moving to open the back door. "Pop the trunk, will you?" Dean grunted as he went around the Impala. While his brother did that, Sam went through the backseat, searching for the  _extension of Tracee's life_. Her words, not his. He found the iPod shuffle tucked in one of the smaller pockets of Tracee's large denim bag.

Sam moved backwards out of the car, and then shut the door. He headed towards the open trunk, and then lifted the lid of the tire compartment. Tracee's sword is what he had been looking for, and it was nestled right in between their normal arsenal. "You think she'd have time to get some of her ritual in?" Dean asked.

"Maybe," Sam repeated, though that hadn't been his intention. If Tracee wanted to try, then she could, but he was thinking of using it more like a safety net. After grabbing the sword, he tucked it between his arm and side, and then used both hands to shut the lid of the trunk.

"Alright, be careful," Dean told him.

"Yeah, you, too."

Sam waited until Dean got in the car and drove off before heading back into the clinic. After a bit of looking, he came across both the doctor and Tracee in a room with the two bodies on slabs. The youngest had been completely covered by a white sheet while another white sheet had only covered the father up to his chest. Amanda was in the process of taking blood from the father while Tracee looked on, gaze unwavering on the corpses. "Hey," he called. Her dark brown eyes shifted to him for only a second. "Can I talk to you?" It took a few seconds, but eventually his girlfriend relented, giving him a nod of agreement.

The doctor watched them leave, Sam noticed, eyes showing a gleaming curiosity. Despite Tracee's adamant questions are not to be asked from earlier, Amanda clearly wanted to know more. For now, he would stick with the demand, though. It would be better to wait for more information before giving these people more than they could handle. Sam guided Tracee down the hallway, searching for a secluded room. He came to a stop outside what seemed to be an archive, letting Tracee go in first. She huffed lightly, leaning against a desk.

"Am I about to be scolded for yelling at her?" she questioned. "Should I have taken it easy on the good doctor? Is that what you're going to tell me?"

"Calm down, it's not an intervention," Sam stated. He removed his arm from behind his back, showing her the sword. Her expression immediately softened and so did the tension in her shoulders. Slowly, she straightened her arms from their folded position and gingerly took the offered weapon. Her fingers curled around it as though it were a lifeline. She then breathed out, more tension leaving her body. As he predicted, she felt better with her weapon of choice than without it. "I just wanted to make sure you're okay. You're not usually so…" he trailed off, not sure of how to say it.

"Uptight…?" Tracee guessed, a hint of wryness in her tone. When he didn't answer—because that had been the exact word he would use—she gave a slight chuckle. "Sorry, I guess I have been." Sam stepped closer, moving to stand beside her as she slid the sheathed sword into one of her belt hoops. "Actually, I'm pretty surprised by myself. More than a decade and the concept of the Lost Colony… realizing that it could happen again with us in the middle of it—it's scary to me, Samuel."

"Hey, no judging here," he said. "Better than being afraid of clowns."

"No it isn't," she replied, but her slight smile turned just a bit real. Good, this was working. But he could tell that she was now thinking hard about Croatoan, and the nightmares she had had as a child, probably. Honestly, after thinking on it, it wasn't too surprising. The  _concept_ , she had said. Basically, it was the unknown, and he knew that Tracee did not like the unknown. She had felt better, so now it was time to distract. Sam slowly pulled her iPod out of his pocket. She eyed the small device, and to his delight, her smile widened enough to see the slight gap between her two front teeth.

"I thought maybe we could listen to your music while we wait on back up," Sam said, feeling himself smile.

" _You_  want to listen to  _my_  music?" she asked incredulously. At best, what she listened to was tolerable. Sometimes, lyrics would actually get stuck in his head and on several occasions he had to stop himself from mimicking them out loud, least he get laughed at by his girlfriend and brother. At worst, it was cringe-worthy. To this day, he couldn't understand why someone like her would enjoy lyrics like  _that_. A memento to her mother couldn't have been the only reason, after all.

"If it helps," Sam told her. "I'm willing to power through." That earned him a laugh and a light slap against his chest. He grinned, glad to see her in a better mood. Tracee took her iPod from him and unwrapped the earbuds.

"You're so good to me," she said, taking one of the earbuds and placing it in her right ear. "This… This does help. Thank you." She reached up and tucked the other in his left. Leaning towards him, she turned on the power. Within seconds, the music flooded his ear, and Sam resigned himself to listening to the beat and words of a music genre he didn't really comprehend. Arm against his, she completely relaxed.

For a time, they just stood there as her iPod shuffled through various hip hop, rap, and R&B artists. Then, to his surprise, the sound of an electric guitar entered his ear. His eyebrows shot up, but Tracee didn't react at all. As the song continued playing, he realized that it was indeed rock music blaring. "What is this?" he questioned, turning to face her. His girlfriend hummed lightly. "When did you get this?"

"Oh, Cassie made me listen to like three albums of this group," Tracee stated. "The main guy has a nice voice, so I downloaded a few songs."

"This is rock," Sam said, slowly.

" _Christian_  rock, according to Cassie. So bonus points for giving it up to Jesus."

"Oh, wow—don't let Dean find out about this." Tracee finally looked his way, brow furrowed in confusion. "You've been with us for almost a year and have been so resistant to any form of rock Dean tries to get you to like, but you spend just a  _week_  with Cassie and now it's all  _throw up your rock fist_?"

"Hey, I like rock music," Tracee said, eyes twinkling with amusement.

"You like  _two_  songs from Aerosmith, and one of those was a collaboration with Run DMC."

" _Dude Looks Like A Lady_  is a fun song."

"You didn't even know their name until last week."

"All of us can't be perfect, Samuel. What do you want from me?"

Sam didn't know why, but he felt laughter bubble up from his gut before it erupted from his mouth. Here they were in a bizarre and nail-biting crisis—what, with the whole killing people and demonic connection visions—and he felt as light as a feather. Then with startling clarity, he realized that Tracee had a habit of bringing light to darkness. Ever since she had come into his life, it hadn't been one big pile of crap after another. He was happy. Dean made it tolerable. Brothers in blood and arms. They were a semi cohesive unit that was basically stuck because they were raised for this.

Tracee, though… He had thought her presence made the life even more tolerable—made it worth it. That wasn't true. Despite the hazards that came with this twisted way of life—the hunting and nomadic routine—he was honest-to-God  _happy_. He hadn't felt that way about any of this supernatural shtick in… Well, had he ever? Maybe as a kid when he hadn't known any better. But he was an adult now, and had been in the life long enough to know that he shouldn't be happy. Still, the fact remained the same. Tracee Noland made him happy.

Just as Sam's laughter began to fade, he felt the touch of his girlfriend's palm against his chest. He completely focused on her as she curled her fingers around his shirt. Standing on her tip toes, she pulled him down to kiss him. The tender caress of her lips against his reminded him of the very first time she had kissed him. Whereas that had been mostly a challenge, this was a slow smooth kiss. Not teasing in the least. Sam realized that this was different from the many kisses they had shared, actually. Something about it was… His thoughts stuttered to a halt as Tracee pulled away. He had been so caught up with the differences, he hadn't reacted accordingly, and inadvertently, a disappointed whine left his mouth.

Tracee's smile was almost shy. Another factor that was different. Sam couldn't say he didn't enjoy how adorable her expression was as she stared up at him. "What was that for?" he asked, hearing how breathy his voice had come out. Huh. Tracee shrugged, shifting her gaze elsewhere for a second. She reached up, fingers scratching against the side of her neck.

"Just wanted to, I guess," she replied.

"Well, I wouldn't mind you wanting to  _more_ ," Sam said, lifting his hand to palm her cheek.

Tracee chuckled as he pressed his mouth against hers. Before he could even part her lips, someone cleared their throat, stilling his mouth. Mildly annoyed, Sam reared back, turning his focus on the door. The doctor, Amanda, stood under the threshold. Her eyes didn't look directly at them, but her posture was pointedly disapproving. From her viewpoint, she had witnessed fraternization amongst government officials, probably frowned upon in her mind. "Did you find anything?" Tracee questioned as she pulled the earbud out of both their ears and began wrapping up her iPod.

"There were no common drugs in their systems," Amanda stated. She cleared her throat again, finally looking at them. "However, there was something odd. Both of their lymphocyte percentages were high. Their bodies were fighting off a viral infection."

"Really? What kinda virus?" Sam asked, intrigued. The doctor shook her head, indicating that she didn't have a clue. "Could an infection could make them acted like that?"

"None that I've ever heard her," she replied. "I mean, some can cause dementia, but not that kind of violence. And besides, I've never heard of one that did this to the blood."

"Did what?"

"There's…" she seemed hesitant. "There's this weird residue. If I didn't know any better, I'd say it was sulfur."

"Sulfur…" Sam repeated. He exchanged a knowing look with Tracee. In their line of work, sulfur was an indication of demon. Yes, sulfur existed in the human body but not in high concentration that it could actually leave residue in the blood. But Sam had never heard of demons injecting humans with a  _virus_. This was some new biological warfare. And if it was an infection, how was it moving? "We need to talk to Beverly again. And test her for this." Amanda nodded her head and turned to go.

The two of them followed after the doctor, going back to the examination room. Mrs. Tanner still sat on bed, blank stare on the floor. The nurse, Pam, was nowhere in sight. After a quiet moment, Amanda called out to the woman. Beverly lifted her head and looked towards the doctor. A brief explanation of her findings were given, but the woman had barely reacted to the news. "I don't understand," Beverly whispered. Sam found himself narrowing his eyes, already wary. Her reaction seemed a split second too long. "A-Are you saying my husband and Jake h-had a disease?"

"That's what we're trying to find out," Amanda soothingly replied. "Now, during the attack, do you remember-" She stepped closer to the injured woman. "-Did you have any direct contact with their blood?"

"Oh my God…!" Beverly gasped. She sounded surprise, but there was no other indication of such. Her facial expression seemed almost frozen. "You don't think I've got this virus, do you?"

"Beverly," Amanda sighed softly. "I don't know what to think, but with your permission, we'll take a blood sample."

Sam watched the woman closely, wondering if his suspicions were unfounded. After all, blood contact may not be mode of transport for this virus. Hell, it might be hereditary, passed through the father. It might not even effect women. They had no way of knowing at this point. He would have to decide what to do after they tested Beverly for the same things as her husband and son. Those thoughts immediately flew out the window when the older woman suddenly grabbed and twisted the doctor's wrist. With a raging cry, Beverly backhanded Amanda, sending her sprawling onto the floor. Sam was already on the move, instincts taking over to subdue the threat in front of him. The woman sharply turned to face him, grabbing the front of his shirt and throwing him away from her.

He smashed against the glass cabinet behind him, shattering it upon impact. Sam let out a shaky breath, managing to stay upright. She shouldn't have been able to do that. She had it. She had the same virus. Beverly, still screaming, grabbed a scalpel from the nearby tray of tools, and then rushed at him, lifting the blade high. Sam's gaze darted, trying to find something that would- Too late, his ears picked up the sound of a familiar click. Suddenly, the screaming had abruptly stopped and Beverly's body froze. Protruding from her chest was the sharp end of Tracee's sword. Then the blade was ripped from her body, causing the woman to fall to her knees. The light faded from her eyes before she fell face first to the floor.

A scream snapped Sam's attention away from the clean kill in front of him. The scream had come from Amanda, who stared in horror at the one responsible for ending the last of her next door neighbors. Tracee, expression hard as the steel she carried, stared down the body. She squeezed the hilt of her sword. Blood dripped on the floor from the tip. Then her eyes sharply lifted to meet his gaze. Sam swallowed. He breathed heavily from the adrenaline still rushing through his veins.

"Well…" Tracee started. She flicked her sword, spattering blood across the floor in a line. "Shit just got real."

0-0

"Sammy…! Open up!"

To his relief, Sam appeared only a few seconds later. The door was unlocked and Dean went in, followed closely by Sarge. His real name was Mark, but Dean had always wanted to call someone Sarge, so he would stick to that. The retired marine, from earlier in the morning, had literally stopped him, rifle at the ready, on his way back to the clinic after a failed attempt to leave town. With pistols pointed at each other, they rode through the town, searching for anyone else that might have normal. They hadn't found anyone.

"Did you guys…  _uh_ … get a phone?" Sam asked, turning to face them after locking the door. His eyes looked Sarge up and down, narrowing in that calculative way he did whenever he was on edge.

"Roadblock," Dean told him, distractedly. He turned to their new ally. "I'm gonna have a word. Doc's inside." Sarge gave a curt nod before heading further into the clinic. As soon as the older man disappeared, Sam cautiously asked what had happened outside. "Man, I don't know! I feel like Chuck Heston in  _The Omega Man_." The admission caused his brother to sigh heavily. "Sarge is the only sane person I could find. What are we dealing with? Do you know yet? And what about Trace?"

"Yeah…" Sam shifted, tugging on his jacket lapels. "Doc thinks it's a virus."

"Okay, great," Dean forced himself not to pace. "What do you guys think?"

"We think she's right," Sam answered. "The infected are spreading it through blood to blood contact. Beverly's dead." Dean stared, mouth opening in surprise. He had been threatened, shot at, and held at gun all within the hour, but apparently, they hadn't had the best time either. "Yeah, she attacked Dr. Lee, and then came at me with a scalpel. Tracee took offense." Well, that wasn't surprising. "They all had it, Dean. Oh, but it gets better. The,  _uh_ , the virus leaves traces of sulfur in the blood."

"A demonic virus?" Dean said incredulously.

"Yeah, more like demonic germ warfare," Sam muttered. He sighed heavily. "At least it explains why I've been having visions."

"Dean…!" Tracee's familiar voice caught his attention. He looked up to see the tiny tank jogging towards him. Her arms came around him, and he almost immediately returned the hug. "I was so worried." The hug ended with her releasing a sigh of relief. "I went outside earlier to wait for you, but there were too many eyes on this place. They all seemed too shady, so I came back inside and locked the door."

"Good thing you did," Dean told her, tucking his gun away in his pocket. "As far as I know, they're all creepy crawlers now. I couldn't get out because they blocked the bridge out of here. All of them were armed. Sam told me what happened to the Mrs., so that's four for four, right?"

"Dean!" Sam's voice rose in disbelief.

"What? If things keep going the way they are, it's only a matter of time before the guy I-" He clicked his tongue and mimed slicing his neck. "-comes along, infected, and joins his family. I'm not gonna take any chances."

"So you're just gonna pop him as soon as he comes through the door?!"

"Probably not, according to your vision, but I'm definitely not about to let him Hulk out and infect somebody else," Dean retorted. "I mean, could you imagine if he somehow got to Trace?" Sam's mouth shut, Bitchface turning into distress. "These things are friggin' strong, man! If Trace got infected… I, for one, don't want a blond haired, blue-eyed Slayer that's  _not_  on my side. We can't take that chance."

"Hold on—when he gets here, we should just wait and see. We won't know if he's infected or not. Just because his family was doesn't mean  _he_  is," Sam said. "We can't just waste somebody without knowing all the facts!" Dean sighed heavily. His brother's bleeding heart would be the death of them. "Listen, the Doc's going over the Tanner's bloodwork. Maybe she'll find a cure, or, at least, give us more information. All I'm saying is that we should gather more evidence before wiping out an entire family!"

"Fine!" Dean relented. "Don't get your panties in a bunch. We'll wait, but if I don't hear anything good from the Doc, it's over. Four for four." Sam pursed his lips, obviously not liking the comment. But it wasn't a flat out no, so he accepted it. Dean went over to the door, unlocking it. "Trace, help me get our arsenal outta the car." The tiny tank gave an affirmative hum, and then followed him out. Outside, just like before, they hovered. Bunches of them, in groups, focused on the clinic, but they didn't get close. Creepy. Dean continued to look around as he opened the trunk. "Trace…?"

" _Shyeah_ …?" she returned, on the lookout same as him.

"You know I'd do anything to protect him," he said.

"I do."

"And I know you'd do anything to protect him, too."

"I would. Both of you."

"Then…" Dean pulled out their bag of weapons. "When the times comes, you'll do what you need to do so that  _I_  can do what I need to do, right?" He didn't have to explain himself. He knew that the Slayer would understand the implication. Hold Sam back so he couldn't prevent what would happen. Despite being together, her heart didn't bleed as much as Sam's. At the end of the day, the lives of the people she cared about mattered more than strangers. For a long moment, Tracee didn't answer. It made him focus completely on her. She stared back at him, quietly appraising.

"Are you… sure that's what you want?" she asked.

"Come on, Trace! You're supposed to be on my side!" Dean slammed the trunk shut, and then ushered her back towards the clinic. The front door didn't have had a lock so the most he could do is flip the sign. He went over to the inner door, but Tracee wrapped her fingers around his wrist, stopping him from opening it. His eyes glanced beyond the glass to find no one was in the lobby, so he turned his full attention on her.

"I am," Tracee assured him. "When you say time's up, I will do as you say, but, Dean, what happens afterwards? What if we discover that his blood was clean all along? Could you go on, having that on your conscience?"

"Trace, what the hell?! You know this is going to happen, anyway! Why-?"

"Because, Dean, as much as you try to hide it, your heart bleeds in more ways than one as well," Tracee said. "You already know that Samuel's visions don't always come true. You have a choice. My concern is will you be able to live with yourself after that choice has been made? After more information is gathered, either confirming your thoughts or disproving them. Will this be your turning point?"

"Trace-"

She released his wrist, transferring her hand to the doorknob. "I'll do whatever it is you think we need to. But in the end, it is your choice." Her affirmation was solid, but she didn't look him in the eye. Instead, Tracee opened the door. She went inside, ignoring the scowl being directed at her back. Damn it. She had been supposed to back him up a hundred percent about this, but no. She had decided to make him think.  _Tch_.

Feeling his frown deepen, Dean moved into the waiting room of the clinic. He locked the door behind him. He had meant what he had said, though. If the doctor didn't come back with any good news, Duane Tanner would bite the bullet. No way around it. Dean would not let whatever the hell was happening get to Sam. Or Tracee. No matter what. So fine. He'd wait. Slamming the bag down on the counter, harder than necessary, Dean shut off his brain. Over the years, he had gotten good at just relying on muscle memory to assemble his things for a fight. He needed to prepare for whatever shitshow brewed outside anyway.

Still, the faint itching in the back of his mind hadn't gone away as he worked.

Hours went by, and the sun had almost completely set. Sam had stopped his incessant pouting, and had decided to help with the preparation. Tracee and Sarge were on the lookout. They distracted themselves, but honestly, no one had come up with any type of plan yet. So far, there had been no efforts to break in, but clearly those things were circling the clinic. There was only so much preparation they could do. Sooner or later, they needed to make a move.

Suddenly, the sound of glass shattering broke through to his brain. Followed by a scream, which made him stop working on the shotgun in his hands. Dean immediately came back to reality, and set the shotgun down. He pulled his pistol from his jacket and headed towards where the scream had come from. He heard footsteps behind him, but he didn't pay attention. He found the two women, and quickly assessed the situation. There was a smashed jar of blood on the floor. The younger woman was squealing and freaking out, wondering if she had gotten blood on her. The doctor stated that she was clean. So the blood on the floor was contaminated, but the nurse hadn't got any on her. Good. Dean sighed silently through his nose and lowered his gun.

"Why are we staying here?! Please, let's just  _go_!" the nurse was obviously near hysterics.

"No, we can't because those things are everywhere," Dean stated. Both women turned his way. Then the nurse released a heavy sigh, not done with the freak out. The doctor tried to calm her down, but who knew if it would even work? A nudge to his arm had Dean turning. He faced the three that had followed him. It was Sam that had got his attention.

"She's right about one thing," he said. "We can't stay here. We've gotta get out of here—go somewhere and let people know what's coming."

"Yeah, that's a good point," Dean agreed. " _Night of the Living Dead_  didn't exactly end pretty." For his attempt at a joke, Sam rolled his eyes.

"I'm not sure we've got a choice," Sarge spoke up. "Lots of folks up here are good with rifles. Even with all your hardware, we're easy targets. So unless you've got some explosives…?" Dean noticed Sam's eyes dart around. His brother then focused on something, causing Dean to follow his line of sight.

"We can make some," Sam said. He walked over to a nearby cabinet, easily reaching up and grabbing a dark bottle. It was potassium chlorate, according to the label.

"You know how to make bombs from that?" Tracee questioned. A smirk worked its way onto her face, and Dean just knew that her attraction for Sam had increased again. Shaking his head, he almost let out a chuckle, but a loud pounding cut off his amusement. Someone was making a huge racket at the entrance of the clinic. At once, the four went back to the waiting room.

"It's Duane Tanner!" Sarge announced, moving closer towards the door. Dean scowled, watching the man unlock the door without hesitance. He then focused on the guy that came stumbling in. Carrying a backpack, he looked pretty average for someone his age. Build and height weren't threatening, and he seemed freaked out. The guy didn't even look at anyone else as he walked by. Dean narrowed his eyes, focusing on the limp as the last of the Tanners moved further in. Sarge walked after him, asking if the new arrival was okay.

"Who else is in here?" Duane questioned.

"Hey, whoa, whoa, whoa!" Dean grabbed the guy's arm, forcing him to look his way. "Easy there, chief." Without looking away from Duane, he called out to the resident doctor. "Give Duane here a nice onceover, would you?" The doctor, who had appeared to see the commotion, nodded her head, and then turned to go into an examination room, calling for the nurse. Dean shoved Duane, urging him to follow. They all clambered in the same room. The newcomer obliged, but he turned to question Dean's identity.

"We'll ask the questions here," Tracee said. "First things first—where were you this whole time?"

Duane's eyebrows scrunched together as he lowered himself on the examination table. He stared at as though confused by her presence. Tracee did not budge under his scrutiny. She calmly waited for him to answer. "I… I was on a fishing trip up by Roslyn," he said. Well, it matched the earlier story, but Dean wasn't even close to trusting this guy yet. "I came back this afternoon. I saw Roger McGill being dragged out of his house by people I  _know_ —good people that I grew up with. They started cutting him with knives! I ran. I've been hiding in the woods ever since. Has anyone seen my mom and dad?"

"Awkward," Dean staged a whisper. Sam looked less than amused.

"What made you decide to leave the woods? Why come here of all places?" Tracee interrogated. "You left safety and risked coming into town where clusters of dangerous people lurked. Why is that?"

"I… I thought if… I thought someone else might be here," Duane blurted out.

"Here,  _specifically_?"

"N-No, I just-" he started stuttering. Yes, Tracee could be intimidating, but the way Duane stumbled over his words wasn't winning him any points. "Look, I saw the lights on. This was the only building in town that had lights, so I came here!" Tracee hummed, crossing her arms.

"You're bleeding…" the doctor had begun her examination and had said her first observation out loud. Dean immediately went rigid as his eyes darted to the man's leg. There was a slash in his jeans and a visible red gash on visible skin. The doctor wisely backed away from Duane, probably thankful she had worn gloves.

"Where'd you get that?" Dean kept is voice steady, but clenched his gun tighter.

"I was running," Duane answered. "I must have tripped."

"You don't  _know_  for certain?" Tracee asked.

Dean had heard enough. "Tie him up," he ordered. "There's rope in there." Alarmed, Duane stood up, protest spilling from his mouth. Dean reacted by cocking his gun and aiming at the threat. "Sit down!" he barked, stopping Duane in his tracks. He stared wide-eyed at the barrel of the gun, and then hurriedly returned to the examination table. "Did they bleed on you?" Of course, he denied that, and even seemed genuinely confused by the question. Still, Dean wouldn't lower his guard. "Talk to me, doc," he directed his words elsewhere while keeping his eyes on Duane. "You've had time—can you tell if this guy's infected?"

"I… I've studied the Tanners bloodwork backwards and forwards," she stated. "All three-"

"My family…! Where are they?!" Duane interrupted. The doctor grimaced, looking away guiltily. After gathering herself, she focused on Dean, and then opened her mouth to continue.

"It took three hours for the virus to incubate," she stated softly. "Sulfur didn't appear in the blood until then, so… no. There'd be no way of knowing until Duane… turns."

The itch in his trigger finger became noticeable. Now, more than ever, he felt the urge to squeeze. One or two pulls and this new problem would go away. Then they could focus on getting the hell out of this town. "Dean…!" Sam's voice snapped him out of his thoughts. Dean only glanced his way. "We've gotta talk. Now." He already knew what the conversation would be about, but he knew Sam would just keep bugging him. So, after an assuring nod from Sarge, Dean lowered his gun and followed his brother to another room. Tracee decided to come with. She shut the door before catching up to them. Once they were alone in a room down the hall, Sam turned to face them with his pinched look. "This is my vision, Dean. It's happening."

"Yeah, I figured," he commented.

"All the players are in place," Tracee agreed.

"Right, but you can't kill him," Sam insisted. "Not yet. We don't know if he's infected or not."

"Oh, I think we're pretty damn sure," Dean retorted. "Guy shows up outta nowhere, gotta cut on his leg, his whole family is infected—I  _told_  you. Four for four, Sam."

"I know, but… All that stuff is circumstantial, right?" His brother looked at his girlfriend, eyes almost desperate. Tracee frowned, crossing her arms. "We didn't see him become infected, and he said no one bled on him."

"I'm not taking him at his word!" Dean said.

"We can't just kill him right  _now_! All I'm saying is to wait and see! The doc said that it takes a few hours to tell. We'll keep him tied up until then, and if he turns-"

"No, Sam! Alright? I'm not risking any of us over this guy!" Dean cut off. "We already wasted the rest of them. What's one more?"

"Are you serious?! He's not even-! He's still human!"

"Not for much longer."

"We don't know that, Dean!" Sam shouted. "What the hell's happened to you?! You might kill an innocent man, and you don't even  _care_! You're not acting like yourself! Hell, you're acting like-"

"Yeah, I've heard enough. Trace."

"What-?" Sam began, but Tracee stepped in between them, palm against her boyfriend's chest. "What are you doing?" he questioned, looking down at her.

" _Hush_ , now, darling," Tracee soothed. Then, faster than a blink, the Slayer twisted him around. With her arm around his neck, he was bent backwards. She held his arms behind his back in a vice grip with her other hand. Sam struggled in his awkward position, but Tracee held fast. "Sorry, but this is something Dean has to do."

"No! No, Tracee! This isn't right!" Sam pleaded. Not wanting to hear anymore, Dean turned to go. "Hey! Dean!" As a safety measure, he closed the door and locked it. That way, Tracee didn't need to hold on for long. As soon as the lock clicked into place, she must have released Sam because he rushed at the door. He rattled at the handle, glaring through the window. "Open the damn door, Dean!" Pursing his lips, Dean turned away. "Don't do it, Dean! Don't!"

Ignoring the muffled shouts and banging on the metal door, Dean walked down the hallway, purposely making sure his clip was full before reaching the door. Sam would be a pain in the ass after this, but he would deal and move on eventually. Like Tracee had said, this was something he had to do. Better safe than sorry. Yeah… Better to keep everyone as safe as possible. The first thing he could do was take out the threat that had snuck in. So Dean opened the door to the examination room. He immediately noticed Duane in a chair, tied down by rope. The guy immediately saw him, too.

"No…  _Nonononono_ …" Duane shook his head. His eyes were locked on the gun in Dean's hand. The tenacity must have shown in his face because Duane became more frantic. He wiggled in his seat and shook his head quicker. "You're not gonna… No, no! I swear, it's  _not_  in me!" Dean clenched his jaw, and then cocked his gun. He took aim, not listening anymore. The voices of the other room's occupants were all muffled. He saw Duane pleading for his life, but he had to ignore it. This was the only option.

"I've got no choice," Dean said. Honestly though, it had been said mostly to himself. He squeezed both hands around the grip, index finger flexing, not quite pulling the trigger. His jaw felt the tension of his teeth grinding together, but Dean pushed the pain down. He had to do this. He had to.

 _You're not acting like yourself_! Blinking rapidly, he shook his head. Now was not the time to be thinking about Sam's accusation. He a job to do. He was going to do it. Of course, he was acting like himself. This was what he would do. This was the only thing he could do.  _Could you go on, having that on your conscience_? Dean's eye twitched and so did his lip. Apparently, his brother's words weren't the only ones that shot through his mind. Tracee's previous words floated in his mind alongside Sam's. No. No. This was the right thing to do. Kill him now or kill him later. The only difference would be how many people this guy infected before putting him down.  _You'd find another way_. Cassie, too? And from a month ago? Come on!

Dean felt jerky all over. He swallowed hard, trying to drown out the rapid pounding in his head. Over and over again, those words repeated like a broken record. He fought to keep them back, but they only seemed to get louder. Dean tried to focus on his target, but he only noticed his own gun. Shaking. Just like his guts. He squeezed his eyes shut for a split second as his finger curled around the trigger.  _You want to honor your old man, and I get that, but you are not him_. Dean blinked again, remembering his own words to Jo Harvelle. Out of context, but somehow… somehow, he thought of it. This. This was something John Winchester would do. As much as the son had wanted to be like his father, the perception had changed.

Swallowing hard, Dean lowered his gun. "Damn it…!" he growled out. After a moment, his surroundings came back to him. Duane breathed heavily, but he was relieved. The others in the room were the same. Frowning, he turned away from them, leaving the room. He almost stomped down the hall, back to where he had left Sam and Tracee locked in another room. He hesitated for a few seconds before unlocking the door. Opening the door, he found the two on opposite sides of the room. They both turned to him, frowns on their faces. "We'll keep him tied up," Dean stated. "Doc'll test his blood every hour, and we'll leave him tied up an extra hour just in case." Sam sighed out, and then nodded his head. "For now, let's make some explosives."

"This is the right thing to do, Dean," Sam assured him.

"Whatever," he replied. His brother decided to take it in stride. He walked by him, intending to go to the labs in order to start on the explosives. Furrowing his brow, Dean looked Tracee's way. She hadn't moved to follow. Instead, she was glaring at him. "What? I thought you'd be happy I didn't kill him."

"It was a better outcome than anticipated," she replied. The glare remained.

"Then what's with the face?"

"Because your little stunt landed me in the dog house, didn't it?!" Tracee snapped, voice taking on her British accent. Dean grimaced. Well, it wasn't his fault his brother could be unreasonably petty at times. "You couldn't have just come to a decision before it got too far, right? That'd be much too convenient!"

"I'm sure he didn't mean it, Trace."

"He said I can't sleep in the same bed as him for, at least, a week!"

" _Oops_ …?"

"Piss off, Dean!" Tracee hissed before storming away.

0-0

Sam stubbornly ignored his girlfriend's attempts to get back on his good side. She had been trying for hours now. He refused to give into her pouts and light touches. He realized he was being a little childish with the silent treatment, but he had been upset. In the end, Dean hadn't shot a man in cold-blood, but Sam couldn't believe that Tracee had gone to such lengths to make sure he couldn't interfere. She had never manhandled him… in public, and certainly not because she had clearly conspired with Dean beforehand. Maybe he was just being irrational, but just for a little bit longer, he would keep moving away from her attempts at touching him.

Once again, Tracee huffed, poking out her lower lip. She shifted away from him and began concentrating on the finished Molotov cocktails. Okay, so maybe he wasn't entirely upset with her. That pout caused Sam to force back a smile. Pouting was something his girlfriend didn't often do, and it was adorable in a way. Dean, sitting across from them, filling up a bottle, finally looked up. He had been ignoring the shenanigans for a while now, but from the way his eyes flickered between the two of them and the frown on his face, Sam knew he would make a comment soon. Really, it would lead him to talking. Maybe he could provoke his brother into actually telling him why Duane Tanner was still alive.

Sam handed a bottle off to Tracee, and she took it to stuff a cloth down into the opening. It had been a bit of a mishap with the first cocktail she had made involving lots of swearing and a small fire on the floor, and now she was stuck on the last step of preparing the explosives… so she wouldn't cause more damage. Just then, Amanda came into the room, announcing that Duane's blood was still clean. It had been four hours now. She asked permission to release him. Dean looked his way, and Sam gave a slight nod. He raised his brow, and then went back to filling up a bottle. Sam was the one to give the doctor the go ahead. She sighed lightly, and then walked off.

"Well, I still find him shady, so I'm going to watch him," Tracee stated. She slid off the metal stool. Her teeth grazed her lower lip. Clearly, she was hesitating. Then she leaned towards Sam, pressing her mouth against his cheek in a chaste kiss. She took in a deep breath before going after the doctor. Sam watched her go until she disappeared around the corner.

"So how long are you gonna keep that up?" Dean asked. Sam shifted his gaze to his brother, feeling his face twisting in confusion. "The cold shoulder. It's kinda noticeable."

"Don't worry about it," he replied. "It's…" He sighed heavily. "It's nothing. We'll talk later." Dean frowned, but didn't make another remark. After a quiet moment or two, Sam cleared his throat. "So… You know I'm gonna ask you why." His brother feigned disinterest by picking up a finished bottle and examining it. He grunted, but didn't protest. "So, why? Why didn't you do it?"

"… Cuz your bitch-ass got in my head," Dean answered.

"Nice one, jerk," Sam retorted.

His brother merely grinned. After a second, Sam helplessly grinned back. It was probably the closest thing to an explanation that Dean would give, so he had no choice but to take it. Something he had said had managed to break through Dean's determination of getting rid of the potential threat. And it all worked out in the end, anyway. Sam knew that Dean would let the guilt eat at him. Despite the fronts he would put on, taking an innocent man's life would have killed him.

"We need more alcohol, Sammy," Dean stated.

Sam nodded once, and then stood up to go into the adjacent dispensary. He found Pam rifling through something, but didn't really pay attention. "How are you holding up, Pam?" he asked politely as he headed towards the far counter. Already, he had spotted ingredients they could use for the cocktails.

"Good," she replied. "It'll all be over soon." After picking up two bottles, Sam turned to her, intending to give her a reassuring smile, but he halted. Pam was standing near the door, which was shut. He hadn't closed it. "In fact…" she continued, stepping forward. "I've been waiting for this the whole time." Confused, Sam asked her what exactly had she been waiting for. "To get you alone." She stared up at him with bright blue eyes, a look of knowing on her face. With uncomfortable realization at the situation, Sam took a step backwards. Pam only moved forward.

" _Uhh_ … I actually have a girlfriend…" he blurted out. "And I'm pretty sure you mentioned having a boyfriend, so-"

The nurse unexpectedly snarled out, shoving at his chest. The impact sent him to the floor. Disoriented by the strength of the push, Sam couldn't even think to stop her from climbing on top of him. He was hit hard across the face, which nearly blinded him. He let out a gasp of pain, feeling something sharp piercing the left side of his chest. Whatever blade it was slid in a diagonal line across his skin. With three sources of pain storming his body, Sam could only lie there, helpless and in agony.

Three shots rang out, cutting through the pain. Then the weight on his chest disappeared. Still dizzy, Sam lifted his head, panting heavily. Slowly, his sight sharpened and he saw Dean, gun drawn, standing over him, along with Mark. Sam grabbed at his chest with his left hand and reached for his brother with his right. Dean, of course, leaned forward to pull him up, but Mark stopped him. "She bled on him," he said. And just like that, Sam stopped breathing. Awareness sinking deep within in. "He's got the virus."

"What…?" The voice caused Dean and Mark to turn towards the open door. Sam looked beyond their bodies to see Tracee standing just past the threshold. Her eyes were wide, and from his position on the floor, he could clearly see the disbelief on etched on her face. "Wh-What…?" She shook her head. "What did you just say?" Mark opened his mouth to explain or repeat, but Tracee pushed her way in between him and Dean. She grabbed Sam by the front of his shirt and lifted him to his feet. He saw her swallow hard, her eyes focused on the injury. When she reached out to touch, Sam flinched and took several steps back.

"Don't touch it!" he warned her, volume of his voice louder than he would have liked. Her gaze lifted to meet his. "Don't… don't touch it…" Tracee wrung her hands in front of her before abruptly dropping them to her sides.

"Well…" Her jaw clenched, and her eyes darted to the floor. "At least, let the good doctor look at you." Sam swallowed painfully, but nodded his head in agreement. White noise filled his head as he followed the three out of the dispensary. He was infected. Somehow, without realizing it, Pam had been effected for who knows how long. He hadn't seen it, and now, he was… already dead.

Sam numbly sat through Amanda's careful treatment. She gave him an ice pack to dull the senses around the injury, but ultimately, she had kept her distance. Understandable, given the nature of the cut. The rest of them looked on, anxious and wary. Well, Dean paced back and forth like an agitated cat. Tracee kept to herself on the left side of the room, looking down at the floor. She was blank, maybe as numb as Sam felt. It was Mark and Duane that had already decided his fate. He would need to be put down.

"Doctor, check his wound again, would you?" Dean continued pacing. When Amanda didn't move as ordered, he barked out her title in irritation.

"What she need to examine him for?" Mark asked. Dean stopped moving and glared at the man. "You saw what happened."

"Did her blood actually enter your wound?" Amanda tried to find a loophole. It must have. He had been powerless to stop Pam from doing whatever. And with the time it took for Dean to bypass the locked door, it had been just enough time for her to infect him.

"Come on! Of course it did!" Mark shouted.

"We don't know that for sure!" Dean argued.

"We can't take a chance!" Duane chimed in.

"You know what we have to do," Mark continued.

"Nobody's shooting my brother!" Dean had just compromised their cover with his outburst, but at this point, what did it matter? He must have realized that, too. The moment Pam had gotten him on the floor, there was no other alternative. Sam Winchester would cease to exist, turned into a… puppet because of a demonic virus. There would be no stopping it. God… This was how it ended—waiting to become a thing. Uncaring of his opinion whatsoever, the other men in the room bickered back and forth, trying to overpower each other by sheer volume alone. "You don't shut your pie-hole, I still might!" Dean's threat managed to buy them a few seconds of silence.

"Dean, stop," Sam mumbled. Everyone finally shifted their attention to him again. As long as he was in this weird limbo state between man and puppet, there was no way anyone could relax. Who could relax with a ticking time bomb? "They're right. I'm infected. I need…" He pressed his lips together, and then released a shaky breath. "Just give me the gun and I'll do it myself."

" _Fuck_  that…!" Dean's growl was joined by Tracee's. She moved towards him, clamping her hands around his thighs. "That isn't how you're supposed to die. I won't let you die like that!"

"Tracee… I-I don't wanna become one of those things," Sam told her.

"Sam, we've still got some time-"

"Time for  _what_?" Mark interrupted Dean. "Look, I understand he's your brother, and I'm sorry. I  _am_! But-"

"You put your hand on that gun, and I spill your innards like a bloody piñata before you can even blink!" Tracee snapped, sharply turning her gaze to the older man. "Trust me when I say you do  _not_  want to test a Slayer!" Her voice, like ice, halted the retired marine in his tracks. His hand hovered over his pistol, which was tucked in his pants. The room became a silent crackling atmosphere as the two stared each other down. Finally, trembling, Mark lowered his hand to his side. He couldn't have known that Tracee was capable of, but maybe the Sergeant in him recognized the threat of a stronger foe. Duane visibly tensed and even took a step backwards, staring at Tracee with wide-eyes.

"Then what are we supposed to do?!" Mark blurted.

For several moments, no one spoke up or made a move. Then Dean reached into his pocket and pulled out his keys. He tossed them to Mark, who expertly caught them. "Get the hell outta here, that's what," Dean said. "Take my car. You've got the explosives. There's an arsenal in there. You two go with him." His eyes shifted from Duane to Amanda. "You got enough firepower to handle anything now." Sam stared at his brother, incredulous. Not only was he giving up his Baby, he was completely resigned to  _staying_.

"No. Dean, no! Go with them!" Sam urged. Tracee shifted her gaze to him, lips parted to protest. "Both of you!" he insisted before she could utter a word. "This is your only chance!"

"You're not gonna get rid of us that easily." Dean forced a smile, and it broke his heart to see it.

Sam could tell this whole situation had made his brother give up. He wasn't going to keep fighting. He would stay. Tracee would stay. They would all die here. The thought made his eyes sting with the coming of tears. The urge to throw up had him squeezing his eyes shut and gripping the exam table underneath him. Bile was getting harder and harder to swallow. Sam heard footsteps departing and muffled conversation, but it was the click of a lock turning in place that caused him to open his eyes again.

Tracee had moved away from him and had been the one to lock the door. Duane, Mark, and Amanda were gone. Dean sat on the desk opposite of Sam, idly hanging onto his gun. His eyes were focused on the floor. Tracee kept her back to them, rigid as it had been at the start of this case. "Please, don't do this," Sam whispered, talking to both of them. Dean lifted his chin, staring back at him. "Just get the hell outta here." Tracee didn't move at all.

"No way," Dean said, perfectly resolved.

" _I'm_  the one who's sick. It's over for me," he stated. Sam could no longer hold back his tears. He was the reason his brother and his girlfriend remained. "It doesn't have to be for you."

"It's already over," Tracee murmured. Finally, she turned and strode towards him. Sam noticed the small dagger in her left hand. The shine of the blade glinted under the artificial light, making the blood on the tip more noticeable. Tracee stood in front of him, grabbing his left wrist and slicing into the meaty part of his palm. Sam winced, mostly in surprise. Then the dagger was thrown to the floor. The clang of it momentarily distracted him. Tracee took the opportunity to clasp her right hand with his left, fingers intertwining and palms pressed hard together. Too late, he had realized what she had done.

Sam tried to tug his hand away, but her fingers curled in a tight grip. Mingled blood dripped from their hands, staining his jeans. "No… No!" He shook his head, not being able to believe that she had gotten herself infected. "How could you?  _Why_  would you do-?" Tracee took in a shuddering breath, expression twisting in frustration and struggle. She then reached up with her left hand, gripping the back of his neck. She pulled him forward until his forehead touched hers. Her eyes squeezed shut and she bit her lip. This whole thing hurt her just as much. Sam opened his mouth, but he could find no words. They stayed like that, in silence, for more than a minute. Vaguely, he was aware that his brother hadn't spoke up. Not one remark or joke. Then Tracee slowly opened her eyes. Though they were wet with unshed tears, they showed a serenity that he hadn't seen before.

"I'm not…" She licked her lips. "I'm not going to leave you here. I won't let you go through this alone. Didn't I say it before? I'm your Slayer without reservation. It doesn't matter if we fly or fall, I'm yours, Samuel."

"… Y-Yeah," he agreed. This situation had gone from bad to horrible, but yes. She was right. He didn't want to be alone in his time of dying. Maybe it was selfish, for both of them, but somehow he could bring himself to regret. "Mine." Sam nodded his head, shutting his eyes. "You're my Slayer."

Tracee released her hold on the back of his neck, moving her hand to his cheek. He felt her lips against his, and promptly returned one of the last kisses they would ever share. Oh, God… Sam let the ice pack fall from his chest and maneuvered his cast hand around her. It was a long, soft, poignant kiss that sent ripples across his skin. His insides rattled, equal in both elation and misery. Tracee reared back. Frowning, she rested her forehead against his. He was hers, too. He opened his mouth to tell her so, but Dean loudly cleared his throat. Almost forgot about him. Tracee slipped out of Sam's grasp to face Dean.

"Isn't this all fine and good," he grumbled sarcastically. "Man, Trace, I've done some pretty dumb things, but  _that_ …? Goddamnit." He sighed heavily. "I mean, you could have-"

"I know a Super Slayer isn't what you wanted," Tracee interrupted him. "But this way, it'll be easier for you. When the time comes… I'll do it. Then when it's-it's my turn, you do me in proper, okay?"

"You think- You think it'll be easier if I shoot you instead of Sam?" Dean asked, disbelief prominent in his expression.

"Wouldn't it? I'll just become another thing, so  _shyeah_ , it should be easier. Far easier than shooting your own brother," Tracee said. "I mean, it not like  _I'm_ -"

"You  _are_!" Dean shouted. The sudden increase in volume caused both Sam and Tracee to flinch. Dean shook his head. "Man, Trace, after everything, you  _actually_  thought-?" A humorless chuckle erupted from his mouth. "You know, I was getting back to enjoying the job. These past few months have been… a roller coaster—these shades of grey, finding out my brother has weirdo psychic powers,  _dad_ -" He nearly choked, mentioning their late father.

"Dean…" Sam murmured, unsure of what to say.

"I thought I'd be tired of it all," Dean continued, narrowing his eyes. "The job, the life, the sudden pressure—I thought I'd be tired, but I wasn't. I looked forward to hunting with you and Sam. I was having fun again like-like I did when I was a kid who didn't know any better. But losing you— _both_  of you—what's the point in going on?"

"Dean, you can't just give up and die," Tracee said. "That's not why I-"

He merely waved his hand, cutting her off. "Maybe I won't make it out of here. Maybe I will," he said. "Don't worry, tank, I'm not gonna embarrass you by opening my arms to it. If I go down, I'll go down swinging." Dean forced a grin before he looked down at the floor for a few seconds. "But if I do make it, I'm done. What's the point of hunting if I'm the only one left? What  _fun_  could I have after this night's over? So yeah, I'd be  _done_."

The confession came as a shock. For most of Sam's life, he had tolerated the hunting. Dean  _loved_  it. So to hear that he would give it all up… Yeah, Sam supposed he could understand the reasoning behind it, but the Demon would still be out there, and Dean wouldn't lift a finger to go after it. And what was this sudden pressure he was talking about? Before Sam could question further, a noise from outside the room caused him to turn his eyes towards the door. Footsteps approached the door and seconds later a rapid knocking came.

Dean stood up from the desk, gun in hand while Tracee moved towards the door. She peered through the rectangular window before unlocking the door and opening it. Dr. Amanda Lee stood in the hallway. "You better come see this," she advised, appearing breathless. Furrowing his brow, Sam wondered if she had jogged back. His hand reached up, wiping the tears from his cheeks. He cleared his throat, and then stood from the exam table. After a few seconds of debating silently, the three followed the doctor, only stopping once they hit the sidewalk outside the clinic. It was dark out and completely silent.

"What is this?" Tracee muttered, frowning. "Where'd they all go?"

"There's no one," Amanda stated. "Not anywhere. They've all just… vanished." Tracee instantly shuddered and wrapped her arms around her body. Pressing his lips together, Sam reached for her, sliding his arm across her shoulders to pull her close.

" _Croatoan_ ," Dean grumbled. "Well, now I'm starting to see why it freaks you out so much, Trace."

0-0

Morning had come, and with it, the realization that Sam hadn't been had the virus, after all. Without the massive threat looming outside, they had all waited the hours it took for the virus to incubate. It hadn't. Sam's blood had been checked several times, and nothing had come up. Tracee, too, had been checked, and sulfur hadn't been clinging to her red blood cells either. She had made such a dramatic and drastic decision for naught. Had it been pure luck, or something far more intricate? Either way, it was a wonder. To top it all off the entire townsfolk had indeed disappeared. Dean, Duane, and Mark had gone searching, but came up with nothing. That, along with proof that such a virus existed in the first place because those who had contracted it no longer had traces in their blood, this case had been closed cold.

The authorities would have themselves a cow upon investigation. The good doctor had intended to head to the next town. Mark and Duane had packed and left together. Tracee, Sam, and Dean had gathered evidence of their presence and had driven as far away as possible. There had been too many questions left unanswered, and they all felt it. The drive had been heavy with silence. Even after finding a motel, they conversations had been meager with no comments on what had taken place in River Grove. They had slept for a few hours, showered and changed clothes, before heading back out to pick up lunch.

They had taken their meal to a nearby river and had their fill. Now, the three of them were enjoying the view, in part. Dean and Sam stood, facing the river, idly drinking beer, while Tracee sat on top a wooden bar of the fence in between them, all of her fingertips lightly tapping at her half-empty bottle of water. Still, the silence stretched on, each of them contemplating. More than once, Tracee eyed the palm of her right hand. The recent injury hadn't healed yet. Not exactly uncommon, but it hadn't begun the healing at all, it seemed. Each deliberate touch of the jagged line made her wince. It didn't hurt, but it was a bit strange. Maybe it was what it signified that made it strange…

The faint wind suddenly shifted directions and brushed against her cheeks. Tracee shut her eyes, brushing strands of hair from her face. How angry would her father be if he had learned of such an emotional response? More disappointed than angry, probably. She had been willing to throw her life away, after all. Sure, she would stop at nothing to protect those she cared about, but the choice of that had been ripped away from her by a locked door. At the time, Sam had been dying, and she had not been able to help him. It had brought up thoughts of Dean in a hospital again, and it had felt worse than anything she had ever felt before. So, unthinkingly, she had made the decision to join him. It had been an emotionally fueled decision. Selfish as hell. But it had been a decision she hadn't regretted. That was the unnatural bit.

It hadn't been an entire year, and yet Tracee would have willingly joined Sam in death. Unnatural. She had been with Michael for six years, and yes, most of that had been as a teenager, but never had she thought to lay down her life if something happened him. Granted, they wouldn't have been placed in such situations in the first place. However, she was certain that she would have moved on had something tragic occurred, never mind if the cheating hadn't come to light. Comparing the two timeframes, it was indeed baffling, but… there was something about Samuel Winchester. From the start, in fact.

Tracee snuck a peek at her lover. He was so focused on his own thoughts, or maybe the water in front of him, that he didn't notice her stare. She took the time to study him. The worry on his face, as well as the relief of not meeting death just yet, were all clear to her. Huh. She had gotten so good at reading him. Memorizing the lines in his face. Just like when he had laughed despite the imminent crisis, it made her heart flutter. He had looked so happy that it had made her anxiety disappear. Tracee tilted her body sideways. Suddenly, the urge to kiss him had become overwhelming. Her lips lingered on his cheek. Same as last time, Sam seemed startled by the display of affection. He turned to her, both delighted and questioning as Tracee straightened her body.

"Let me guess," he began, amused. "You just wanted to?"

"Do I need a reason?" Tracee merely shrugged, shifting her line of sight to the river. Sam chuckled lightly, and then returned the gesture in kind.

"Oh, man, if you two are about to start being gross…" Dean griped from the left of them.

"Not with his beer breath," Tracee assured.

"Hey…!" Sam protested. Both she and Dean laughed at his offended tone. It was quiet for a beat after their chuckles faded. "But since we're talking now… Dean, you wanna tell me what you were talking about?"

"What do you mean?" Dean questioned, appearing confused.

"What do I mean?" Sam returned. He pushed himself from his leaning position and fully faced his brother. Dean did the same. Curious, Tracee lifted her legs and turned her body around to face them. "I mean, when you said you had this sudden pressure about all this. I've been thinking about it, and it doesn't make sense. We've both had this same type of pressure our whole lives, so why would you call it sudden? Why would you think you'd get tired of the job?"

"Forget it," Dean said.

"No. No way," Sam retorted. Tracee could see that he wouldn't let it go. Not this time. Her eyes glanced at Dean, and he frowned, obviously seeing the same thing. "Tell me why you said all that last night. Dean, I'm your brother, alright? If you got some new weight on your shoulders, let me help carry it. It's what I'm here for." The older Winchester pressed his lips hard together, eyes darting down to the ground. The tension in his jaw made it abundantly clear that this line of talk made him uncomfortable.

Then, to her surprise, Dean relaxed. He drained the rest of his drink, tilting his head back to swallow every drop. A harsh sigh left his mouth. His eyes focused on Sam, the rest of him was committed. Oh. Was he about to…? "You're right. I've held onto this for too long," Dean admitted. He was, Tracee realized. He was about to tell Sam everything. She hopped down from the fence, knowing that the situation would become tense, maybe even volatile. "I made a promise to not tell you."

"What are you talking about? A promise to who?" Sam questioned.

"Dad," Dean replied. The reveal made Sam shift uncomfortably. Tracee felt her stomach clench at the sight. She reached up, nails scraping against the side of her neck. "Right before he died… he told me something." Dean paused, looking downward. He drew in a slow breath, and then released through his nose. "He told me something about you."

"What?" Sam nearly whispered. "Dean, what did he tell you?"

"He told me he wanted me to watch out for you… take care of you," Dean stated.

"He told you that a million times," Sam stated, shaking his head in confusion.

"Well, this time was different," Dean continued. "He said… I have to save you, and that nothing else mattered. But if I couldn't… I'd have to kill you." The color drained from Sam's face as he processed the last words of his father. He shook his head in disbelief. "He said I might have to kill you, Sammy."

"Kill me…?!" Sam scoffed out. Tracee grinded her teeth together. The clenching of her stomach suddenly became twisting. She saw the slight tremble of her lover's lower lip, and it was painful to witness. The hazel of his eyes darkened by the onslaught of emotion from hearing the confession. Tears were building, and they might have fallen. However, the color rushed back to his face, indicating anger. "What the hell is that supposed to mean? I mean, he must have had some reason for saying it, right? Did he know the Demon's plans for me? Am I supposed to go  _dark side_  or something?! What else did he say, Dean?!"

"That's it—I swear, other than to not tell you," Dean stated. "He begged me, Sam."

"That's  _bullshit_!" Sam snarled. "Who  _cares_  if he begged?! You had  _no_  right to keep this from me!"

"Yeah, Trace had a similar reaction." Dean winced and threw an apologetic look her way, but Tracee had already braced herself for Sam's reaction. Her lover blinked once, and then turned his attention to her, silently accusing. Tracee bit her lower lip, feeling his anger and hurt in waves. What? That was different. Shaking it off for now, she swallowed hard, making a grab her at belly. The twisting switched to stabbing. Still, she attempted to disregard it. Instead, she opened her mouth to explain. "No, don't blame her. She wanted to tell you as soon as she found out, but I convinced her to keep her mouth shut," Dean beat her to it. "You wanna be pissed? Be pissed at me. And that's fine, I deserve that for holding back, but… we needed to figure out why he said it."

" _Did_  you?!"

"Yes," Tracee spoke up. Sam looked her way again, but his anger hadn't left his eyes. "Whatever Poppa-Winchester knew, Dean suggested that my dream of you and Max had something to do with it. Since you two had the same circumstances, we asked Ash to look up people that had the same happen to them. Besides you and Max, he gave us two other names."

"One was Andrew Gallagher and another was Scott Carey," Dean picked up. "All we asked for were names. Then you had your vision, and we found Andy, but he didn't know anything. So this other kid was our last shot. He knew something." Sam knitted his brow together.

"Hold on—when was this?" he asked. "I've been with you both all this time, so how did you-?" Clever man figured it out mid-sentence. Again, his eyes focused on Tracee. "… That week you were gone. You were actually looking up this Carey guy." Slowly, she nodded her head. "Cassie knows about this?"

"Yeah, they went to Indiana while we were in Baltimore," Dean said. "We didn't really know Ash, and I wanted someone I could trust looking into this instead of a stranger. And she came through."

"Capital D visited Scott in his dreams for months, trying to convince him to use his powers for bad things," Tracee went on. "Scott mostly ignored him, but Capital D also told him that he, and others like him, would be soldiers in a war that's coming. Then we realized that we had crossed paths with Bruce, and he had accidently learned about it from a demon."

"She means Gordon Walker," Dean corrected before Sam could ask. "Apparently, he tortured a few demons to get more information. Didn't want to risk being wrong because he knew he would have to go through me and Trace before getting to you."

"Getting to me?" Sam questioned.

"He wanted to kill Scott, and anyone like him," Tracee explained, trying to ignore the throbbing pains that sprung up in body, coiling her insides too tightly. "Put an end to the war before it came, and… stop you all from bringing a horrible evil into the world. Poppa-Winchester might have come across that same information and that's why he…" She was panting. Breathing so hard that the rest of her words got caught in her throat. Both brothers turned to her as she grabbed her throat. Sam's dismay at the news rapidly shifted to concern for her, and somehow it eased coiling, but not by much. Tracee squeezed her eyes shut, gasping now. It felt like bolts were ricocheting through her entire body.

"Tracee…?" Sam's voice came in surround sound. He was everywhere. Around her. Through her. Inside her. Boiling. Burning her up. Just the sound of his voice. What in the God damn was this? Tracee felt her legs give out underneath her, but didn't fall completely due to his hands grabbing her arms. Vaguely, she was aware of Dean's voice shouting, but it had become background noise compared to the thrumming of  _something_. It invaded her ears and swept along her skin like the greatest melody. "Tracee! Tracee! Open your eyes!" She obeyed and was greeted by the sight of his neck. That was the source of the thrumming. As though in a trance, she watched the bulge of his vein. It was as though the need came surging from nothing, but it could take her down in an instant. She wanted to drown in it. In him. All that red pumping away. Got to have it. Got to smear it across her teeth. Got to taste it. "Tracee, your  _eyes_ …! Your teeth!"

"What the hell is wrong with her?!"

It was too much. Having never felt anything like it before, the swirling of need and want and pain. So much pain. And confusion and worry. And rippling, head-spinning desire for blood down her throat. Not just any blood. Sam's blood. But that was all kinds of wrong, right? She didn't want to eat him… did she? With such a bombardment, Tracee couldn't take much more. Her body collapsed completely, and the darkness consumed every one of her senses.

0-0

The demon watched the blood swirl within the goblet as he absently wiped his dripping hand on the side of his seat. He ignored the gurgling of the man he had killed in order to open up the line of communication. Echoes and whispers filled his ears, causing a smirk to cross his face. "It's over. You'll be pleased," he spoke. "I don't think any more tests are necessary… The Winchester boy—definitely immune as expected… Yes, of course. Nothing left behind." His eyes shifted to pure black as he glanced at the dead man in the driver's seat. "There's one other thing… That girl that travels with them. She called herself Slayer… No, I didn't feel anything, but I thought you should know… It would explain how Tom-" The demon winced, instantly knowing that it hadn't been a good idea to bring up that particular demon. He would pay for that later. "I-I just thought you should know that is what she called herself. What do you want me to do?" A few seconds went by before he received his answer. "Of course. I understand." With the last order given, the connection terminated.

And so the demon, in the body of Duane Tanner, began planning.

0-0


	33. Destiny & Choice

There weren't many things in the world that could effectively scare Sam Winchester. Horrifying, gruesome things that could have the average person paralyzed with fear meant little to him in the long run. Just another Thursday. He had seen things—done things—that would make the toughest people cry out in fright. Sam had become immune to most of it in his years of living the life of a hunter. He had hardened. And yet, here he was, terrified beyond comprehension. Everything had seized up and had come to a screeching halt. His heart. Lungs. Hell, his entire respiratory system had just stopped. Honestly, his mind had not wanted to process it. Because he had been right there, and he hadn't been able to do  _anything_. And now, of all things, this had been the thing that truly scared him witless. Nothing could compare to the feeling of having Tracee Noland go completely limp in his arms. And suddenly, he wasn't somewhere in Oregon. Suddenly, he was in Palo Alto, staring up at Jessica, pinned to the ceiling and consumed by flames.

"Trace! Trace…!" Hearing his brother's frantic shouts snapped Sam out of the past and brought him back to reality. Dean had lowered himself to his knees beside them, and was now slapping Tracee's right cheek. His attempts at rousing did not work. "Come on, Trace!" His fingers shifted to her neck. Dean froze, eyes going wide. Oh, God… Sam was going to be sick. "It's… It's normal."

"Wh-What?" Sam found himself shaking Tracee a bit, but there was no response and her body remained without tension. "Then what's wrong with her?"

"You're asking  _me_?" Dean retorted. "I don't know  _what_  the hell! And did you see her eyes?" He had seen them. Instead of the familiar shade of brown, the irises had been gold. Her pupils had been constricted as though she had been staring at the sun. And her teeth... Her canine teeth had lengthened and appeared sharper than normal. "You think… You think she got the virus, after all?"

"No," Sam said. "Her blood was clean. She couldn't have gotten the virus at all! And besides, it's been over too many hours-"

"We don't know that! I mean, maybe it took so long to affect her because she's a Slayer," Dean reasoned. "And now that it's had time to work itself through her system, it's having a weird effect. I mean, she was looking at you-" He abruptly cut himself off, lips snapping shut. Sam narrowed his eyes, feeling his face twist in confusion. "It's just  _weird_ , man."

Sam shook his head. No, it couldn't be that. He was immune to the virus. As troubling as that had been, it had meant that Tracee couldn't have contracted the virus from him. No. This wasn't the virus. This was something else. Had to be something else. Clenching his jaw, Sam lifted his hand, palming her cheek. He furrowed his brow, realizing how hot her skin was. To make sure, he moved his hand to her forehead. "She's burning up," he murmured. "Maybe… maybe she's just sick…?"

"Trace doesn't get sick," Dean said.

"Yes, she does. She got sick when we all caught that bug at Bobby's."

"But all of us were out of action for like three days except her…" Dean shook his head a bit. "Right. What am I saying? Women are awesome." Sam gave a slight nod. Despite feeling just as sick, Tracee had been up, attempting to nurse them all back to health. "But there's no way she's  _just sick_ , Sam. She changed." To prove his point, Dean lifted Tracee's upper lip, revealing the sharper than normal canines. Then, to their shock, the sharpness retracted and her teeth appeared normal again before their eyes. "Okay, see? That's not normal sickness!" Dean withdrew his fingers and shook his head.

"I doubt it's the virus either," Sam muttered.

"If it's not the virus, then maybe it's a Slayer thing?" That seemed the most likely for her current condition. Though, Tracee had mentioned fainting spells in her teen years. Not to mention the time she fainted after hearing the supernatural existed. Still, there were legitimate reasons behind the fainting. Information overload, Tracee had told him. That and not enough eating had normally caused it. So that couldn't have caused the faint this time around. "If it is a Slayer thing, then maybe it's in her handbook—some sorta of change all Slayers go through? We just gotta find it and-"

"It's at Bobby's," Sam interrupted. He abruptly stood up, cradling Tracee close to him. He tried to ignore the way his stomach seemed to drop upon realizing his girlfriend stayed unresponsive even with the jostled movement. "We have to go  _now_." Dean stood to his full height, too, nodding his head. Hurriedly, both brothers moved towards the Impala. Dean opened the back door, and Sam quickly slid in. He held Tracee in his lap, only removing one arm to shut the door again. In the front, his brother had started up the car. Swallowing hard, Sam stared down at her. "Hold on, Tracee," he whispered. "I've got you. Just hold on."

 

0-0

 

Tracee woke up slowly. Wrapped in the comforts of a bed, she didn't want to move. Releasing a relaxed sigh, she drew the covers closer to her body. She wouldn't mind staying like this for a few more hours. But she couldn't, could she? Her face had felt the morning sun shining through the curtains. Had to start the day. Actually, she was half surprised that she hadn't been roused from slumber already. Generally, she would be the first one up, just in time for dawn. Her body had been conditioned for it in order to get a few hours of her ritual. However, it seemed that she was alone in bed now. She couldn't feel Sam's arms around her, and she couldn't hear the light snoring from Dean.

Frowning now, Tracee sat up, pushing the covers away. She looked to her left. Sam wasn't there. Her fingers slid across the sheets. There was no warmth, so he hadn't been there for quite some time. Humming lightly, Tracee finally took in her surroundings. There was not another bed. This was not a motel. In fact, she could recognize where she was quite clearly. Bobby's guestroom. Whenever they stayed over, the man of the house would allow Sam and herself to sleep here. The master bedroom had been offered to Dean, but the stubborn man hadn't wanted to take advantage by stealing the only bed left.

Weird, though. She didn't remember the decision to return to Bobby's home, though it made sense. She definitely didn't remember changing into her nightwear, large college t-shirt and purple shorts. Still, it had explained the lack of visible Winchesters. Whenever they stayed, Sam would get up early just to scour through books. Dean would either be up, working on a car, or sound asleep on the couch downstairs. The last of sleep faded then, and Tracee moved to get out of bed. Her bare feet touched the floor, and without consciously thinking of it, she headed towards the door. She opened the door and made her way down the hallway to the staircase. Carefully, she took the steps two at a time.

Once Tracee landed on the first floor, she immediately began searching for someone. However, Dean was not on the couch. Sam was not at a desk, reading through a large book. Bobby, too, was nowhere in sight. More than likely, the three men had gone about their morning routines. They could have left a note, or something… Tracee hummed again as she walked towards the kitchen. She could smell coffee. There was a pot left on the counter next to the refrigerator. It smelled nice, but she could never get into drinking scalding liquid. Instead, she opened the refrigerator door, cool water on her mind.

Before she could reach for one of the bottles of water, something caught her attention. Just a flash, but it had distracted her because it had appeared from the corner of her eye. Pursing her lips, Tracee turned her focus to the kitchen's window. She went over and reached out to the window shutters. She moved the shutters to get a clearer view of the outside. Another flash, something humanoid and dark, caused her to back up. She narrowed her eyes, and then decided to check it out. Maybe it was just a shadow of a reasonable thing, but Tracee had been in this life too long to simply ignore it.

What a turn her life had taken… Going towards a suspicious thing instead of staying clear of it had not been something she would do previously. Tracee hurriedly made her way to the front door. She put on her socks and shoes, and then flung open the door. The sun, so bright, blinded her temporarily. When she was finally able to pry her eyes open, she was greeted by a Sahara-like land. She stepped off the porch, letting her feet get a feel of the sand underneath. Stretching as far as she could see, there was nothing but desert for miles.

Then the flash came again, going around the house. Tracee darted off after it. She might have gone around the house several times in search of that presence before finally halting. Standing a few yards away was a familiar face. Her lips tugged upward in a knowing, grandmotherly sort of way. Tracee relaxed despite her confusion. "Missouri," she greeted. "What are you doing here?" The older woman merely winked. "I'm dreaming then?" Honestly, she should have realized with the change of scenery. Still, Missouri's presence was different from the one she had been chasing about. "Why are you here?"

"It seems I am being borrowed," she replied. "To give voice to the one that cannot speak." Then she felt it. With the shifting of wind, that undeniable presence she had been looking for came to her again. So much raw power condensed into one being. It reappeared, but not like a flash this time. Moving in a crouched position, a woman came from behind. Her dark brown eyes locked on Tracee, examining closely. Her hand lifted, palm reaching to touch, but not quite. Tracee blinked once, and then returned the deep scrutiny. This woman, dressed in just enough thin gray cloth, stared her down. Nearly her entire face was covered in white paint. Her hair, long and wild, hid most of her face, but Tracee could see the stone-cold expression of a predator. The fierceness of her eyes was a familiar trait. But the potency of it caused trembles on the inside.

"Why can't you speak?" Tracee questioned.

"I have no speech," Missouri answered as the unknown woman shook her head. "No name. I live in the action of death. The blood cry. The penetrating wound. I am destruction—absolute.  _Alone_." And suddenly, Tracee knew who this woman was. Perhaps she had known all along. She was staring into the eyes of the first of many. The apex predator of the supernatural world. This woman, who had been sacrificed to give rise to humanity's most powerful weapon. Tracee clenched her jaw, feeling both awed and intimidated.

"The First Slayer," she whispered. The woman stood to her full height, acknowledging her title. "You are inside me. I am you. We are alone." Her head tilted forward, perhaps in approval. "But that isn't true, is it? We are no longer alone. We are legion." With a shake of her head, the Slayer frowned. Tracee pushed down the daunted tremor that ran through her and continued. "And you can speak, can't you? Stop the pretenses, dear sister. I know you, and you do have a name. So let's talk—Slayer to Slayer...  _Sineya_ -" However slight, the use of her name caused the ancient sister to reel in surprise. A chink in her armor as it were. Clearly, even in this dream, she hadn't been expecting it. "-Shall we begin?"

 

0-0

 

Sam watched as his brother knocked on the door of Bobby Singer's home. Dean had called earlier as they drove, without stopping, and the man had said he would take a look at the handbook ahead of time. Sam hoped that Bobby had actually found something in the hours it took them to get here. Tracee, in his arms, still hadn't woken up. This whole thing was tearing at his nerves, and any information, even the bare minimum, as to why it was happening would be welcomed. Something in that huge tome had to explain the state of his girlfriend. Sam didn't want to think that his connection to the Demon had anything to do with this.

Finally, the door opened, revealing Bobby. The man opened the door, silently inviting them in. "I hope you found something," Dean said as he walked in. Sam followed after, making sure to turn sideways to avoid bumping Tracee against the doorway. Bobby gave a reply, but Sam was already making his way up the stairs to the guest bedroom. Their conversation faded as he moved further away. In the time it took for them to drive here, Tracee's temperature hadn't lowered. Her skin was too hot like she was burning from the inside out. And yet, nothing else indicated anything was wrong—except for the fact that she hadn't woken up. Her pulse was normal. Her breathing was steady. She only appeared sleeping, actually, which had been the reason Sam and Dean forwent going to a hospital. Her symptoms couldn't be explained by general means. The handbook was the only option.

Nudging the door completely open with his foot, Sam entered the guest bedroom. He wasted no time in placing Tracee's body on top of the bed. He attempted to make her as comfortable as possible, despite the lack of response. "What is happening to you?" he murmured, cupping her left cheek with his right palm. Of course, she didn't answer. Frowning, his thumb lifted her upper lip to see if her teeth were still normal. They were. He wondered if her eyes were back to normal, too. Then to his astonishment, once again her canines sharpened. Eyes wide, Sam withdrew from Tracee, holding his own hand in confusion. "What is  _happening_  to you?" he repeated, hearing the worry in his voice. Sam released a heavy sigh, squeezing his eyes shut as he straightened. If he caused this… He wouldn't be able to live through the guilt a second time. This could not be the same as Jessica.  _Please_. Just then, he noticed movement at the door. He turned, seeing his brother enter the room with a frown on his face. "Did Bobby find anything?"

" _Nah_ , the damn thing doesn't have an order," Dean grumbled. "He found a few paragraphs about  _Slaypires_ , though—Slayers who get turned into vampires." Sam's eyes widened. He had never thought of something like that. "Yeah, I know, but it only happens when a vampire is crazy or arrogant enough to turn one. Luckily for us, vampires are a dying breed and are too cautious to go attempting something like that." He gestured towards Tracee. "Any change?"

" _Uh_ , yeah, actually," Sam replied with a quick nod. "The fangs are back." Dean clenched his jaw. "I don't get it. As long as we've known her, nothing like this has ever happened. I keep thinking of what could have caused it, and… I can't help but think it's  _me_. I did this. It's… It's my fault."

"Sam, we don't know anything yet," Dean said.

" _Don't_  we?" he retorted. "I'm immune to this weird demon virus. We had blood to blood contact. And all of a sudden, she's comatose without warning and-and has  _fangs_ , Dean! I mean, what else would it be? Everything's spinning out of control, and I feel like we're stumbling in the dark."

"Hey, we're gonna figure this out, Sam," Dean insisted. Sam frowned, not entirely convinced. He looked towards Tracee's face. "We might not know what the hell right now, but we will—we always do." After a moment, Sam squeezed his eyes shut, but nodded in agreement. "And, hey…" The hesitance in his brother's voice made him open his eyes and focus on Dean again. A heavy sigh left his mouth. "About dad…"

Sam clenched his teeth. He had put it out of his mind ever since Tracee fell unconscious. Honestly, that topic was something he hadn't wanted to think about. John Winchester wanted him  _dead_. His own son. That had been his initial thought. There was nothing worse than hearing that the man that had been supposed to protect and love him always had ordered his oldest to kill him. God, it had hurt. It had torn him up inside. Yeah, father and son had fought like wild dogs on occasion, but that—even if John had a good reason, Sam would have never thought the man would wish  _death_  on him. Of course, as Dean and Tracee had continued talking, he had realized that his father had had a good reason. It hadn't taken away the stinging hurt.

"Dean-"

"No, listen—you need to hear this," he cut in before Sam could tell him they didn't have to talk about it right now. He swallowed hard. Although slight, he had had thoughts of Dean actually carrying out the order. His brother had a history—a long, infuriating history—of obeying orders without question. It wouldn't be that farfetched to think Dean would do it. Otherwise, John wouldn't have… made it his last order. "I don't…" He shook his head and his jaw tightened again. "Look—dad was an ass! And I wish to  _God_  he'd never opened his mouth!" Surprised, Sam only stared. "It was bad enough that he traded his life for mine, but on top of that, he told me to kill you without explanation! I was walking around with this screaming in my head almost every damn day!"

"What? You actually thought about it—killing me?"

"I didn't say that…"

"Come on, Dean—the good little soldier you are didn't think about following that last order? It would make all that  _sudden_  pressure go away," Sam taunted, bitterly.

"I never said that!" Dean raised his voice, causing Sam to flinch. He lowered his head, contrite. Before, he had been angry, at both of them, and it had leaked into the current conversation. It shouldn't have. Here he was raging and confused, and his brother and his girlfriend hadn't exactly been having a good time with John Winchester's last words either. "Damn it, Sam! You're my  _brother_! The last thing I want is to see you die! And dad must have been out of his mind to think  _I_  would be the one to do it! I don't care what the Demon has planned for you—whether you're supposed to be a soldier in his war or a goddamn key to unlock evil—none of that matters. I'm not gonna kill you, especially for something you haven't even done!"

"I don't know, Dean…" Sam muttered. "If dad believed it enough to tell you that-"

"Dad's not  _here_ , Sam! As much as-!" Dean abruptly cut himself off. He took in a deep breath and squeezed his eyes shut. Face flushed, the effort appeared mildly painful. As much as Dean looked up to their dad, it must have been a blow to get that type of order. Sam had felt it, too. Was still reeling from it. Dean had been walking around with those words—that anger and confusion—for months. Anyone else might not have made it so far. Eventually, Dean released a heavy sigh, seemingly calming himself down. "… He's not here. I am. And  _I_  say no matter who's gunning for you for whatever reason, I'm gonna protect you, Sammy. There's no final ultimatum, okay? Protecting you, keeping you safe— _that's it_. That's what I'm gonna do."

Sam clenched his teeth hard. Like before, his cheeks flushed. But it wasn't the white hot anger he had felt when Dean had confessed to lying to him for months. Actually, this was the opposite. He felt completely reassured. The declaration felt like a blanket that soothed his inner turmoil, made all the more comforting because his brother had never really spoken that way before. Dean had been right. He had needed to hear it. Sam swallowed hard. "Thanks for that…" he muttered. Dean grunted and looked away. Sam awkwardly cleared his throat and lowered his gaze to the bed. For a moment, the room was silent. "So… Gordon's after me?" he questioned as a way to change the subject. "What are we gonna do about that?"

"Don't worry about him," Dean said. "Trace took care of him."

"… He's dead?"

" _Nah_ , she just called the cops on him," Dean replied with a shrug. "Gordy's gonna be reaching for the soap for a few years for kidnapping." Amused at the thought, his brother grinned. Sam shook his head and rolled his eyes. "Scotty boy's gonna testify against him, and with any luck we won't see him for a while."

"Scott Carey… That's the guy who's like me?" Sam asked. "What can he do?"

"He can  _uh_ … electrocute somebody just by touching them," Dean stated. Sam frowned, not expecting that. Wasn't exactly a psychic type of ability, was it? "Cassie and Trace trusts him, so I doubt we need to worry about him. In fact, we don't have to worry about any of this right now. So far, no one else seems to know about it, and Cassie's gonna keep her ear to the ground for more info. Until we know more, there's not much we can do."

"Isn't that a little dangerous?"

"I already tried telling her no," Dean said, shrugging. "She's in our corner for the long run." The tiny smile hadn't gone unnoticed, but Sam decided not to make mention of it right now. To be honest, he was more focused on the fact that Dean had worked through this. Like really thought about it. Instead of stewing in his own reaction and guilt because of their dad, he had chosen to actually do something about it and figure out the reason. If it had been any different, Sam imagined himself leaving to get his own answers, but Dean had taken care of that all on his own. Well, not completely on his own. He had had help. It would have been a mistake to go and look for answers by himself, so Sam was glad that it hadn't come to that. "So, anyway, right now, we should be focusing on what's happening with Trace—not the Demon's plans."

"Yeah," Sam agreed. His eyes returned to the unconscious Slayer. Once again, a frown worked its way on to his face. "You don't think-" He was interrupted by the sound of knocking. It came from downstairs. Furrowing his brow, Sam looked at his brother. "Did Bobby say he was expecting company?"

"No, he didn't," Dean answered. After a moment's pause, the two decided to head back down. Sam followed after Dean, glancing briefly behind him to take one last look at his girlfriend. Standing around wasn't going to help her, so after stifling their curiosity, they would hunker down and look through every book they could in order to find a solution to wake Tracee up. Once they reached the first floor, Sam looked towards the living room to see that Bobby was already talking to his guest, and she happened to be a familiar face. "Missouri…!" Dean exclaimed, equally surprised to see her. The psychic halted her conversation with Bobby to face them. As they stepped into the living room, she greeted them with a warm smile.

"Hello, boys," she said. Then the smile faltered as her eyes fell on Sam. "Oh, honey, I'm so sorry about what your father said." Sam pressed his lips together, shifting his gaze towards the floor. Right. Honestly, he wished she wouldn't have read that and brought it to the forefront of his mind. He had other things to think about right now. "Well, I suppose we should cut the chit chat. I'm here because of the Slayer." Immediately, Sam focused on the older woman again.

"What? You know about Trace?" Dean questioned. "You know what's going on with her right now?"

"I do… or I have an idea," Missouri stated with a nod of her head. "I've known since the day I met her that this could happen. I just wasn't sure of the  _when_. I couldn't tell you before, but after Max told me about his dream of Tracee growing fangs, I knew I had to come as soon as I could."

"His dream…?" Sam repeated, furrowing his brow. "Max had a  _vision_?"

"Yes, he has had several, in fact," Missouri replied. Sam supposed that wasn't a shock. If he had had multiple abilities, it stands to reason that others like him would develop more than one ability as well. "But this is the first one he has mentioned to me. He was quite shocked to see the fangs."

"I bet," Dean remarked. He crossed his arms. "So what are we looking at? What's happening to Trace?"

"It's nothing life threatening," Missouri said. "I want to make that very clear. She is in no danger because of this. It's something every Slayer is supposed to go through. Extremely rare, but something that should happen normally." Sam let out a sigh of relief. It was so good to hear that.

"How do you know? The handbook?" he asked.

"I have my sources," she said. "But no, it is not in the handbook. What I am about to tell you will startling, but it is true. You might want to get comfortable. In order to explain, we have to go back to the very first Slayer."

"The first Slayer—Sineya," Sam murmured. Missouri nodded her head. Tracee's father, Victor, had briefly told them around the first. However, not much had been known about her. The ones responsible for turning her into the Slayer hadn't exactly kept a close watch on her as future generations of Watchers had done with their Slayers. In fact, it took a lot of research, according to Victor, to uncover her name. "Whatever this is—it started with her?"

"First off, you should realize what makes a Slayer—the very essence that gives them their powers. It's not fairy dust," Missouri stated. "All Slayers have this essence inside them, which actually caused what happened today. From what I've seen, Tracee has…"

"What? What did she do?" Dean asked, impatiently.

"Boy, don't you interrupt me…!" The retort caused Dean to frown, muttering an apology under his breath. Sam held back a smirk. "I believe Tracee has initiated a claim."

"A  _what_? You mean like with vampires?" Bobby asked. "I knew the girl wasn't exactly human, but…" His eyes flickered to Sam, causing the youngest Winchester to shift uncomfortably. "Are you sure that's what this is?"

"I've seen it. It wasn't done properly, but it counted," Missouri said.

"Okay, maybe you do need to start at the beginning because I am totally lost right now," Dean said.

"Alright, have a seat. This story involves the Slayer line and intervention—both direct and indirect."

 

0-0

 

They were circling each other. Two apex predators, sizing up one another. Tracee wasn't sure of the when, but gradually, in the silence that followed her question, both Slayers moved around slowly, seemingly waiting for a chance to lash out. Missouri had disappeared as far as she could tell. Now, it was just two Slayers and a whole bunch of sand. Despite the readiness to strike, Tracee didn't want to have to tangle with her ancient sister. Of all Slayers, it was said that she was the most powerful. Would there be even a smidgen of a chance of beating her? Probably not.

"Well then…" Tracee began because it would seem that Sineya would not speak up just yet. "Shall I attempt to guess the reason for your presence?" There was no response. "What could drive a Slayer to leave her well-deserved rest? A warning, perhaps—something not as cryptic as our regular dreams?" Sineya merely tilted her head to the side. "Or is it that I've personally done something to cause offense?" Suddenly, the ancient Slayer halted. Tracee, too, stopped, planting her feet. The air crackled between them as she waited for whatever might come. Sineya lifted her chin, stretching her neck. The strain of using her vocal chords could physically be seen.

"… Both…!" she growled out.

In an instant, Sineya lunged for her. Tracee had been expecting a strike, but the speed behind the attack had caught her completely off guard. The straight punch knocked her off her feet, sending her backwards on the ground. The crack of skin against skin echoed in her ears as she lifted herself. Or maybe it was the sudden thundering of her own heart. Sineya came at her again, and Tracee lashed out with her foot. The sole of her shoe collided with Sineya's abdomen, making her stumble back. Tracee took the opportunity to tuck her body and roll backwards on her shoulder. She barely had time to get to her feet again before her ancient sister rushed her again.

Tracee almost didn't dodge the fist to the face in time. She dropped down, fingers curling around sand as she swung her leg in a low kick. Sineya merely jumped up to avoid it. Her feet touched the ground again just as Tracee stood, knees bended. With a vicious snarl, Sineya swiped at her opponent, sharp nails digging into flesh. Her other arm reared back and launched a backhand, sending Tracee spinning away. She hit the ground hard, and barely recovered before Sineya jumped on top of her. Her hands gripped the sides of Tracee's head, and repeatedly slammed it against the unyielding force of the ground.

Gritting her teeth, the younger Slayer managed to lift her arms and grab onto Sineya. She twisted, throwing her foe away from her. Tracee quickly followed up with a punch to the face. The strike disoriented the Slayer enough so that Tracee could rise to her feet. The back of her hand wiped against her stinging cheek. She glanced at the blood on her knuckles before completely focusing on Sineya. Fine. Gloves off then. The ancient Slayer rose to her feet, teeth bared in anger. Screw logic that painted Sineya as the strongest. Tracee snarled right back just as pissed.

She shot off like a bullet. Sineya, anticipating, reared her arm back. However, Tracee dropped down, bending her knees to avoid the strike. She sharply rose, delivering a swift left uppercut that caught her opponent's chin. Sineya's head sprang back because of the impact. Tracee didn't let up, though. She followed with a hard right hook, and then lifted her leg to smash her knee against Sineya's abdomen. The ancient Slayer yowled as she stumbled back. Tracee straightened her leg, lifting it into a devastating high kick. Sineya spiraled away from her. Not giving her time to recover, Tracee rushed at her again.

However, she hadn't expected Sineya to recuperate so fast. Her deep brown eyes had shifted gold, pupils constricted to mere dots. Tracee's skin crawled, instincts screaming at her to retreat, but she was already on course, swinging her arm to punch. Sineya maneuvered her body, dodging— _dancing_  around the flurry of strikes Tracee tried to inflict. The ancient Slayer suddenly countered, pinning Tracee's wrists together with one hand. The other hand, curled into a fist, rammed into her skull five times. Sharp, fast, and terribly excruciating. The younger Slayer wretched her arms free, but Sineya jumped up, grabbing at the top of Tracee's shoulders. Using the swing of her body, Sineya hit the ground and flung Tracee.

She soared through the air, only coming to an abrupt stop because she crashed into the side of Bobby's house. It splintered and cracked under the impact. Grimacing, Tracee fell to the ground, on her knees. Her body probably couldn't take much more of that assault. She gasped out, struggling to stand. Sineya approached her, hand coming like lightning. Her fingers wrapped around her throat, pinning the younger Slayer to the wall. Gold eyes stared at her, and Tracee was back to being in awe and intimidated. Amplified by the ass-kicking she had just received. "Alright," she conceded in a rasp. She grabbed the ancient Slayer's wrist. It only served to prevent Sineya from crushing her airway. She still had a firm grip around Tracee's throat. "Point made—willing to talk it out now. Come on, sister, use that mouth. Tell me what I did. Tell me what's coming."

Sineya tilted her head to the right, letting her gasp until her breathing returned to normal. Then to Tracee's surprise, her ancient sister released her. Reflexively, she reached up to massage her neck. "You are the Catalyst to the Connected," Sineya spoke. Tracee knitted her brow. She was certain that there had been two voices. A deep feminine voice. And a rich almost baritone-like voice. Standing so close, the sharpness of her canine teeth were clearly visible. "You will be used… as a gift or a curse. There is no turning back from the path you walk."

"I suppose that was the warning? And elaboration would be asking too much, yes?" Tracee questioned, narrowing her eyes. Sineya said nothing else. Not as cryptic was still cryptic, it seemed. "Right then… So this offense that I have done—what was it? Not the gleaming hero you expect of a Slayer?"

"Slayers are not heroes. We are warriors. We are not hindered by the black and white. We embody strength, forging our paths, anchored only by ourselves… and those that walk by our side."

"I thought you leaned towards the side of being alone. Friends and family don't matter."

"They are not friends nor family. They are chosen. They are claimed. They become us. We are alone."

Tracee stared at the first Slayer, not quite understanding. It was as though her mind was right on the edge—at the very tip. She frowned, replaying the words in her head. How could anyone be alone when…? And there it was. The final push into revelation.  _We are alone_  did not mean Slayers. It encompassed both Slayers and their companions. Mates. Claimed had been the key word. She had only seen that in text books regarding mating. Extremely rare amongst such creatures such as vampires, but it had been recorded regardless. There were demons, too, who had claims. Those in a claim were not considered separate entities. They were the same. But then that would mean… Slayers were demons? A type of demon? A different species altogether? Regardless, according to Sineya, Slayers could claim others.

"Wait…" Tracee whispered, confused. "I didn't claim anyone. I-I think I'd remember performing a ritual." The text she had read all described claiming as some colossal extravaganza, complete with the humming and incantations. Ambiguous enough to be looked over, she supposed. Her father never mentioned it, anyway. But it was the little things that Tracee particularly liked reading about. Still, the fact remained the same. There had been no  _claiming_.

"You submitted yourself, pried opened the way to this path with blood, and allowed him to claim you.  _I'm yours_ , you told him.  _Mine_ , he responded in kind. You are claimed by him, and yet he did not reciprocate. Two is not yet one. Your body yearns for it. You feel his rage. His pain. His confusion. It hurts you. You react on instinct. Alone. Weak. Until complete or lost. The audacity of this twisted claim… must be rectified." Sineya then shut her eyes, body faltering somewhat before she composed herself. When she opened her eyes again, they were the deep shade of brown as before. Her teeth had become blunted yet again. "The path is open, stretching closer and closer to your gift." She had lost the two voices, and instead spoke with one. "Seize it. Or someone else will."

"… My gift…" Tracee lowered her gaze to the ground. "Death," she murmured, recalling the words of a previous dream. The images were blurry, at best, and she couldn't remember what the dream had been about, but those words had stuck with her through the years. "Death is my gift."

"You have your answers…" Sineya told her, neither confirming nor denying. Then, she simply vanished from view.

Tracee found herself in the familiar setting of Bobby's property. Not a hint of sand had been left behind. But never mind that. Instead of focusing on the wonders of the environmental shift, she thought of the ramifications of what she had learned. Now that she had these so called answers, what was she to do? She knew about the essence of a powerful demon being the reason the Slayer. She had forced her father to tell her how the line had been created. He had been reluctant to reveal the source of her power, but in the end, he had told her what those three mages had done to a helpless girl. But the Sineya she had encountered hadn't been a helpless girl. She hadn't been a girl at all. The first Slayer had made it to adulthood and had, more than likely, taken a mate herself. Because of that demonic connection.

On shaky legs, Tracee backed up until she was against the side of the house. She had been on autopilot when… the blood to blood contact happened. She hadn't meant to initiate—or  _butcher_  and offend the first Slayer—a claim of all things. She hadn't wanted to eat Sam, after all. However, this circumstance probably wasn't any better. How was she supposed to explain this to him? To  _them_? Dean would lose his shit, probably. Tracee covered her mouth with her left hand and squeezed her eyes shut. She was mostly human. Wasn't she? She shouldn't be dealing with wanting a… a mate. God, this was so messed up.

That was the question, though. Did she want a mate—another bound to her for the rest of their lives? Subconsciously, the answer was yes. Consciously, though… A vivid memory of Sam entered her mind. Something simple, like catching him reading and the way his face lit up as he enthusiastically spoke of his findings. The answer became clear to her then. Tracee sighed, dropping the hand from her mouth. Her lips parted and her eyes narrowed, mildly annoyed with herself.

"Well _,_   _fu_ -"

 

0-0

 

"- _ck_ …!"

Dean was freaking out, and he didn't care that Missouri gave him a disapproving glare for his outburst. Tracee was a demon. He had been traveling around with a demon girl. Well, she wasn't exactly demon. Just a little demonic, which enabled her super powers. Honestly, he never really thought about the origin of a Slayer. Never. Hadn't crossed his mind even during the week he and Sam had been forced to ascend. It hadn't really been an important detail of her background… until  _now_. The essence of a demon hadn't just given her— _all_  Slayers—super strength, speed, and 'I can see the future on crack.' The  _instincts_  of this powerful demon had also been embedded in the first Slayer. The instinct to survive, and apparently, the instinct to find a suitable  _mate_  once full maturity happened, usually in their twenties, according to Missouri. Those instincts had been the reason Tracee had grew fangs and had stared at Sam like she had wanted to take a bite out of him.

"What I don't understand is how we didn't get some type of warning about this!" Dean continued. Of all people, he had thought Tracee's father would make mention that his only daughter might go cavewoman and stake her claim one day. "I mean, yeah, that handbook is ridiculously out of order, but it should have mentioned something like  _this_ , right?"

"It's…" Missouri narrowed her eyes, appearing hesitant. She sat in a chair beside the desk, the coffee that had been prepared forgotten at the edge in light of the explanation on the Slayers' origin. Then her expression shifted to resolve. "It's not something you'd find in that handbook. The fact that Slayers have demon instincts were covered up, this one in particular. The first Slayer took a mate. As did her descendants. Centuries past before the Watcher's Council managed to track and keep a Slayer. They realized the extent of the instincts and they sought to get rid of it. They came up with a… rite of passage for the Slayers.  _Tento di Cruciamentum_. Before they could reach their twenties, these girls had their powers stripped away from them, and then were forced to fight a strong vampire. There weren't many Slayers that survived. And even then…"

"Slayers rarely made it past a year," Dean muttered. He felt himself frowning, remembering when Victor had told them that. The man had said it like an undisputable fact. The constant violent lifestyle eventually led their deaths. Tracee had shrugged, saying that she understood. Sam had not said much at the time, but it had been obvious how uncomfortable he had been with it. Later on, Dean had told himself he wouldn't let that happen to Tracee. No matter how violent the hunting got. She would not end up like other Slayers. "So this rite of passage was to keep them tamed? Sounds stupid to me."

" _Cruciamentum_  means torture…" Sam spoke up since the first time Missouri had explained. Dean looked over to his brother, who had taken a seat in a chair near the archway with his hands clasped together. His face was a blank slate. Dean couldn't hope to read it or imagine how Sam was taking all this. "Why would they go so far just to stop them from… claiming?"

"Because Slayers do not discriminate on who they claim," Missouri replied. "Human. Demon. Vampire. They saw it as an atrocity. Their powerful Slayers could bond themselves to the very creatures they were instructed to kill. They could not allow that to happen. And so it stopped happening. Slayers lived and died without getting the instinct to claim. Generation after generation, eventually it was forgotten." Well, that explained why Victor Noland hadn't thought to mention it. Probably didn't even know himself. It still sounded stupid, but he saw the reasoning behind it. Claiming probably snatched Slayers away from their Watchers. Couldn't let someone—or  _something_  else—take the reins. The stuffy bastards would lose their control over their  _tools_.

"So then how did you know this could happen?" Bobby asked. He leaned against the desk, arms crossed, mouth fixed in a grim line. Bobby Singer was good people, and he had taken the whole superwoman thing in stride. But now, he had heard the reason for superwoman. Honestly, it made Dean wary. "You said you knew when you met her the first time, but that was about seven months ago. I know you're psychic, but could you really see that far into the future?"

"It wasn't the future I saw," Missouri stated. "It was something else. I told you about the Watcher Council's direct intervention with the Slayer line. They used it, pushing humanity forward, but in doing so, they put a limit on it. There were others who saw the potential of the Slayer line, and wanted to uplift it. The Powers That Be couldn't interfere directly, but indirectly, they came up with a contingency plan so that Slayers could actually accomplish the duty they were chosen for."

"Powers That Be…?" Sam repeated with a shake of his head.

"Stupid name," Dean remarked.

"I didn't name them," Missouri retorted.

"A-Are you talking about  _gods_?" Sam questioned before Dean could snap back. "Honest-to-God…  _gods_?!"

"They are higher beings," Missouri said. "They were one of the first to walk this Earth—forces of good to counteract the forces of evil. They left eons ago, but remained ever observant, guiding the world from afar."

"Okay, so what did these so called Powers do to the Slayer line?" Dean asked.

"Because of the Watcher Council's tight grip on the line, so many generations of Slayers never made it to a place where the backup plan went into effect," Missouri went on. Dean frowned. She hadn't given him an answer to his question. He recognized that she intended to stall. What for…? What was so damning about this indirect influence on Slayers? Couldn't be worse them keeping them isolated, and then killed before their twenties all to keep a semblance of control. "The indirect intervention caused the initiation of the claim. It wasn't just an accident. It wasn't just instinctive."

"Missouri, come on," Dean said impatiently. "Give us a straight answer already-!" At her slight glare, he hurried to amend his words. "-Please… What happened to the Slayer line?"

"It… was broadened, in a way. The problem was that Slayers were dying too young before they could reach their potential. Too many of them were  _wishing_  for death, hoping for reprieve from their violent life. So certain rules of this world were… rewritten. When Slayers were chosen, there were others who were chosen as well. While Slayers prevented evil from gaining too much power in this world, the purpose of these other chosen ones was to keep them alive. Not Champions of the Powers That Be, but the sole Champions of Slayers. Predesigned to link, irrevocably drawn together, a seamless balance. Because of the bond between a witch and the Slayer, they had become powerful enough to activate all potentials worldwide."

"Bond…?" Dean repeated. Then what Missouri had said actually clicked. "They… They gave Slayers  _soulmates_?" He glanced at his brother. Sam, too, looked shocked by the revelation. "Soulmates are  _real_? An-And Sam's one of them? That's what you saw?"

"That is the  _most_  equivalent word in the human language," Missouri confirmed. "But the soul part isn't necessary. As I've said, demons and vampires can be claimed, so they can be Champions. And Sam's not the only one." An eloquent ' _huh_ ' popped out of Dean's mouth before he could think to stop it. "The link I saw was between the  _three_  of you. Both of you are her Champions." Her eyes looked from Sam to Dean. " _Both_  of you are meant to exist alongside her."

"Whoa, whoa, whoa…! Are you kidding me?! Are you  _serious_?!" Dean blurted. Missouri kept her leveled gaze on him, so no, apparently the older psychic hadn't been yanking his chain with that reveal. "No,  _no_ … no! Oh, no, I'm not  _meant_  to do anything! I don't believe in that destiny crap!" he protested, swiping at the air, further showing his discomfort with the news. "Even if I did like Tracee in that way, there's no way I'd be involved in a  _threesome_  with my brother!" The action was subtle, but Missouri rolled her eyes. From the corner of his eye, he saw that Bobby had, too.

"Boy, that is not what I meant," she said. "You are a Champion, but that doesn't mean your bond is of that nature. You have a strong relationship with the Slayer because-"

"Because I  _like_  her," Dean interjected. "Not because of some bullcrap destiny that says I have to protect her!" He was the captain of his own ship. Damn it. No one else steered it but him. He didn't care who these Powers were. No way they were dictating his actions and giving him the runaround.

"That's not how destiny works," Missouri said, tone calm despite how Dean had raised his voice. "It can be urged along, but outcomes are not set in stone. But certain facts are. It doesn't matter when or how you met. It doesn't even matter if you hadn't met at all. You would still be her Champion. She was activated in 2003 and so were you. But just because you were meant to be something doesn't mean you were meant to  _do_  something. So calm down…  _captain_." Dean scowled and crossed his arms. Fine. Her words were kinda reassuring, but it still rubbed him the wrong way. He protected Tracee because he wanted to, not because he was supposed to.

"And you couldn't tell us all this the first time  _because_ …?" He restrained himself from snapping, but the bite in his words were clear.

"What would you have done, Dean Winchester, if I had told you that you share a bond with someone you barely knew?" Missouri questioned. Dean opened his mouth. "You would have pushed her away—like you do with so many others. You would have resisted." His mouth snapped close, knowing that the psychic was right. Looking back, it had been kinda weird how quickly the three of them got on. Sam had had a crush on her, so his behavior could be explained. Dean, himself, wouldn't normally be so quick to accept someone, never mind the superpowers. And yet it happened. But could this predesigned baloney really be the cause of their relationship…? It… It just didn't sit well with him.

Dean shifted his gaze to his brother. If he was out of sorts over this Slayer soulmate—but not really soulmate—thing, then Sam must have- The thought immediately dissolved once Dean got a good look at his brother's expression. His eyes damn neared sparkled and that idiotic grin on his face wasn't helping either. Dean stared flatly, slightly embarrassed by Sam's clear eagerness about the subject. Of course, he would be a believer. Dean should have known better. Why wouldn't Sam see this as a form of cement for his relationship with Tracee? Annoyed, Dean called out to his brother. It took three times.

" _Huh_? I mean-" Sam snapped out of his daze, and then cleared his throat. "Alright so… Say we believe all this," he began. Dean shook his head. Noticing, Sam cleared his throat again, and then continued as if he hadn't. "Say all of this is true, fine… What exactly made her pass out? I mean, that part isn't normal, right?" Right. Maybe he had been too focused on the wrong thing. Tracee was still unconscious, and that explanation—claiming and Champions, or whatever—didn't really explain her current state.

"From what I learned through Max's vision and your thoughts, the claim was only half-way complete, but some of the effects went into play," Missouri said. "Sam, you were understandably upset with the news they told you." Sam frowned and nodded his head. "Well, Tracee felt that, too… physically. One of the effects of claiming is… an empathic connection." Sam's eyebrows rose, wrinkling his forehead. "Her body couldn't handle your emotions, plus hers, and the need to finish the claim."

"I-I did that to her…?"

"Sam, that wasn't your fault," Dean rushed to assure his brother, who had looked distraught at the news. "None of us knew this would happen."

"Dean's right, Sam," Missouri backed him up.

"Okay, okay," he muttered, not sounding all the way assured. "So how do we fix this? How do we wake her up?  _Is_  there something we can do?"

"Well, yes, there is something," she answered. "Even in her unconscious state, the Slayer is still reacting to your proximity, wanting to complete the claim." Dean frowned, recalling that Sam had mentioned the fangs coming back after he had put Tracee in bed. "So… you can stay away from her. Let her body work through this without your influence, and she will wake up naturally. Back to normal. As I said before, she isn't in danger." Dean almost let out a sigh. He looked towards Sam, already grinning at the good news, but his brother hadn't shared his expression. Actually, his brow was still wrinkled, contemplating. His clasped hands visibly tightened.

"And… if I were to finish the claim?" Sam asked. Shocked, maybe a little confused, Dean nearly choked out his brother's name. He was ignored. "What happens then? If I just… let her claim me?"

"If Slayer claims are anything like other claims I've read about, then your lives will be tied together," Bobby said. "Mated for life. Right now, it's a one way street—sorta like master and underling type of relationship. Whether you realized it or not, she would do anything you say. A mutual claim is forever. It won't wear off if you spend too much time apart. Forget about the being chosen  _with_  her mumbo jumbo—anybody could debate that, but a claim—it's real."

"You would be closely linked with the Slayer," Missouri added. "One cannot exist without the other. Two will become one. It is irreversible… and unbreakable." Sam drew in a deep breath through his nose, and then released it through his mouth.

"What would I have to do?" he asked. Again, Dean blurted out Sam's name, incredulity rising. Again, he was ignored. He just couldn't believe that his brother was seriously considering becoming a  _mate_. Dean stared at his brother as Missouri told him how to complete the ritual. Basically, it would be the same thing Tracee had done to him. Only, since she was unconscious, he would have to make her react by spilling his blood. She would be drawn to it like a beacon and the instincts would do the rest. After several long moments of silence, Sam dropped his gaze to the floor. Then he sighed heavily, body relaxing. "Okay, how long would I have to stay away from her?"

"… Maybe a few hours…?" Missouri answered. "I know that this is a lot, Sam, but maybe you should think a bit more? Claiming sounds strange and unnatural to humans, but… This could be a good thing for the both of you."

"No, I won't," Sam told her. "I'll… I'll get a motel room, stay there for a day or so just to make sure." Without another word, he stood from his chair, and then left. Hearing the front door shut, Dean could only blink in confusion. While he was glad that Sam hadn't jumped on this whole claiming business, that reaction had been just plain weird. Dean quickly moved to follow after his brother. He caught up to him a few yards away from the house.

"Sam! Would you hold on a sec!" he called to him. Gripping Sam's arm, he turned him around to face him. "Are you really about to just go with no explanation?"

"It's the only way she's gonna wake up."

"Yeah, but I'm pretty sure Missouri didn't mean you have to leave," Dean reasoned.

"I do—I have to," Sam retorted. "Otherwise…" He grit his teeth. "Otherwise, I'd probably finish it."

"… What? No, you're just letting this stupid destiny crap get-"

"I'm not an idiot, Dean!" Sam almost shouted. "None of that really matters!" Dean narrowed his eyes and upturned his lip, not fooled in the least. Sam's cheeks flushed as he darted his gaze at the ground. "Okay, it matters a little," he admitted, facing him again, expression full of resolve. "But mostly, just because we're supposed to be linked by whoever these Powers That Be are doesn't change  _us_. We're still the same, destiny or not." Sam shook his head, looking away for a moment. "Besides, I'd rather believe being a Champion to a Slayer is my destiny than me being a tool for a war or some other evil thing." Dean sighed lightly, not ready to dive into that conversation again just yet. "But honestly, I just… want it. I want the claim. For once I'd… I would actually feel like I belong something."

"Sam… Listen, this claim would be permanent," Dean stated. "I mean, do you  _really_  want that? I'm telling you, man, what Missouri told us is messing with your head. There'd be no going back."

"Go back to  _what_? A chance with other women? You really think I'd do that?" Sam questioned. Dean opened his mouth, but he didn't actually have an answer to give. His brother was a lot of things, but casual had never been one of them. "Look, I know that it's only been a short time since we've met her, and I know jumping into something like a-a claim so soon isn't ideal. Okay? I know that. This whole thing was an accident anyway. Neither of us meant to start it, so I wouldn't take advantage and finish it. Even though I want to. Even though I was going to."

"What do you mean  _going to_?" Dean asked.

"Missouri said a claim was as simple as exchanging blood and saying possessive words," Sam explained. "If you hadn't been there with us, I would have told Tracee I'm hers, too. And if she was running on instinct, more than likely, she would have confirmed it. We would have been… mated without even knowing." Dean couldn't tell if using that animalistic word to describe his relationship with Tracee made his brother uncomfortable, or enthused. Gross. "And that wouldn't have been bad, but… it would have been an accident."

Sam had just repeated himself, but Dean got the gist of it. His brother hadn't wanted the next big step in their relationship to come from an act of desperation. Sam had-  _Oh_. Dean shook his head, wondering why it took so long for it to hit him. "You guys are gross," he said out loud. Sam gave his standard Bitchface, but Dean only chuckled. "I hear you, Sammy. Fine, leave. Guess I'll just have to tell Trace what happened." Dean dug his hand into his jacket pocket and pulled out the keys to the Impala. "Call me when you find a place, alright?" He tossed the keys, and they were caught easily.

"Yeah, okay," Sam muttered. "Don't tell her anything weird."

"What? That you like her cavewoman side?"

"Shut up."

 

0-0

 

Tracee pursed her lips as she breathed deeply through her nose. Once she released the gulp of air, she lifted her hand and rapped her knuckles against the door. The knocks were almost hesitant, she realized. Frowning, Tracee lowered her hand and began wringing her fingers in front of her. Apparently, the walk over here hadn't quelled the apprehension she felt. She had woken up late into the night, insides shaking. After rummaging through Bobby's refrigerator, she had found Dean on the couch. She had woke him up, and he had immediately explained to her what had happened while she had been comatose.  _Huh_ , she had said when Dean had finished. He hadn't found her reaction to the news quite as dramatic as anticipated.

_Hm_. Perhaps her reaction had been a little subdued. Half of what Dean had told her had already been brought to her attention via horse's mouth. The other half, though… The older Winchester had kept throwing around the word 'soulmate,' but there was no need to get bent out of shape about it. She rather liked the idea that Slayers weren't alone in their 'chosen' duties. It only reinforced her own perception that Slayers were not meant to be alone. Still, she supposed she could see why Dean had freaked out about it. These  _Powers That Be_ —stupid name, she had to agree—had attached on something already ingrained in a Slayer just to nudge things on a balanced path. Was anyone really in control of anything with them pulling the strings? If they, indeed, pulled the strings. Were they all just puppets in their eyes? Tracee found herself frowning the longer she thought about it. Maybe Dean's reaction had been right after all…

"Tracee…?!"

Hearing her name, she lifted her gaze, not realizing that she had dropped it to the ground. She had been so into her own thoughts, she had almost forgot her surroundings. After Dean's retelling of events, she had accepted her lover's lack of presence. However, she had been restless, so much so that she had not been able to fall asleep. Dawn had come, chasing away the night, and she had made the conscious decision to seek out Sam. So now she stood, face to face with the man that had essentially run away. Dean hadn't given a clear recollection of his brother's reaction, so… that was one of the reasons for her nervousness. He had probably feigned ignorance to his brother's thoughts, really. They had been together too long for Dean not to have some understanding of how Sam felt.

"Can I…?" Tracee cleared her throat, forcing herself to stop wringing her fingers. "Can I come in?" Sam opened his mouth to give an answer, but he snapped his lips close as though second guessing it. " _Oh_. I'm not… Your blood isn't humming to me anymore." To prove it, Tracee lifted her upper lip to show her canines. Sharp, but definitely not the fangs meant to pierce his skin and release his blood into her awaiting mouth. God, that sounded a little too much like vampire, didn't it? Speaking of blood, though, an adorable blush settled on his cheeks.

"That wasn't-" Sam started but cut himself off. Apparently, that had been what he had thought. No use in denying it. "I honestly didn't even know it did that." He stepped aside. "Come in." Holding back a heavy sigh, Tracee entered the motel room. She was surprised to see two beds instead of one. It must have been a habit. Both beds seemed undisturbed. Maybe Sam hadn't gotten any sleep either. Tracee reached up, nails scratching at her neck as she heard the door shut. "How'd you know where I was?" Sam questioned as she turned around to face him.

"Dean said you texted him," she stated. "After he… told me what happened, and that you left. I couldn't get to sleep so I walked here."

"You… You didn't have to walk. I was coming back," Sam told her.

"I wanted to talk to you… in private. Besides, no one else was awake to drive me," Tracee said. "The Madam left for Kansas before I woke up, so… So can we talk?" Sam pursed his lips, and then gave a nod of agreement. Tracee shifted a bit as an uncomfortable silence descended. This might have been the most awkward they had ever been. Stifling her nerves, Tracee turned and moved towards the bed farthest from the door. She sat down, gaze focused on her lover. After a beat, Sam followed her, choosing to sit opposite of her on the other bed. Tracee swallowed the disappointed whine that almost came out. Instead, she inhaled deeply before releasing it again. "I want to apologize."

"What?" Sam genuinely seemed confused. "Why?"

"I should have told you what Dean, Cassie, and I were doing," Tracee shook her head a bit. "It concerned you and your dad, so you should have been in the loop. I… I won't hold back like that again. If something about you comes up again, I'll tell you immediately no matter what Dean says." Sam blinked once. Tracee could tell he had been baffled by her words. Clearly, there were bigger things to discuss, but she had started in on the least of their… issues. Admittedly, she was stalling.

"I…" Sam began. Then he stared at the floor. "I'm sorry, too. I shouldn't have gotten so angry."

"You had every right," Tracee said. "And I understand your reaction, so it won't happen again."

For a long moment, Sam didn't reply to her. Then he lifted his gaze and focused on her. "Thank you," he said. "But that anger is what made you pass out in the first place." Tracee lightly rubbed the fingertips of her left hand against the top of her right hand. Sam sighed through his nose. "You look like you're waiting for the ball to drop, Tracee." She flinched at being called out. "I won't lie—hearing about all this was unexpected, but I don't… I mean, we only found out another thing about you. It doesn't change anything."

"It changes a little bit," Tracee murmured, lowering her sight to her hands. It was a little embarrassing, actually. She had briefly lost her mind and set all this in motion in the first place. "If things had been successful, we would have… we would be…"

"Mates," Sam finished. Heat rushed to her face as she gave a curt nod. He had said it so nonchalantly, but it was embarrassing. She prided herself on intellect, and yet she had reacted on primal instincts. Dean's remark of 'cavewoman' had been accurate. "Would that have been so bad? I wouldn't mind being yours." The heat of her cheeks spread to other parts of her body. Perhaps it was a residue-like thing, but hearing that caused pleasant tingles. A familiar craving made its way through her, settling in the pit of her belly.

"Samuel, we were in a desperate situation, and maybe hearing about our predesigned link is causing-"

"No, I meant what I said," he interrupted her attempt at reasoning. "I would have been okay with the claim. I would have accepted it. Whether or not it was meant to happen. You were willing to join me in death, so it'd only be fair that I would want to join you in life. But... fair wouldn't be the reason I'd do it." Tracee squeezed her eyes shut as understanding crept in. Sam hadn't outright said it, but the implication had been clear. Or, at least, that had been how she had taken it. Probably best not to jump to conclusions, though. "We wouldn't have known what happened, though. I didn't want something like that to be an accident, so I left. I mean, I want it—I do. What if you didn't want it? Instinctive or not, it wouldn't have been your decision."

Tracee slowly opened her eyes, staring in surprise at her lover. "Samuel…" she whispered. She had been worrying and fretting about his reaction to her more than human instincts, but he had only been thinking about her. Sam embraced all sides of her, even new and mystifying sides, and respected her enough to not just assume and allowed her to make her own decision. Michael hadn't been as considerate. Prom night and spiked punch had been enough for  _him_  to shift their relationship to the next level.

However, Sam wasn't like her previous boyfriend at all. Clenching her teeth, Tracee stood up. Claiming didn't matter. Divine intervention didn't matter. The other stuff could come later. For now, she moved forward, sliding her palms against Sam's cheeks. Her kiss seemed to startle him, but he quickly returned the gentle affection. He wrapped an arm around her, pulling her close, and Tracee complied with the movement by slipping her legs around his torso and straddling his lap. The one thing that matter right now was this.

Sometime later, after they were both sated and pressed against each other, back to front, under the bedspread, Sam bit her with blunt teeth. It wasn't very hard, but it had caught her attention before she could start to drift off. Her shoulder twitched as he slid his mouth across her skin. "Hey," he said. "You never actually said what you thought about all this." Tracee hummed lightly. Her line of sight was on the other bed, but she was hyper aware of Sam's teeth as they grazed her neck.

"It's weird," Tracee muttered, idly running her fingers across the top of Sam's left hand, which draped over her side. "I knew this would happen."

"Really?" Sam kissed her neck before resting his cheek against hers. She nodded, and then told him things about the bizarre happenings in her dream. Then she went on to describe her most recent dream with the first Slayer. "So you already knew about the claim before Dean told you?" Tracee hummed again. "I guess it's just a confirmation then… But what about others being chosen along with Slayers? You believe it?" Tracee hummed.

"Some things just  _are_ … whether they are believed or not," she replied. "If it's true, I can see myself accepting it. What about you? Do you believe the three of us share a bond that transcends the normal scope of relationships?"

"In a way, I guess it makes sense," Sam said. He sighed lightly. "Dean's never really been good with strangers—like a stray cat—but he warmed up to you pretty quickly. You, too. You warmed up to both of us and even knew our names. I mean, you were willing to travel with us before you really  _knew_  us. And we agreed to that before  _we_  knew what you were really capable of." Tracee hummed again. She, of course, saw his point. The closest she had ever gotten to a guy—to anyone, really—had been empty conversations and even emptier attempts at forming a strong relationship. Both Sam and Dean had been different. "And me, personally… When I met you, I was still… thinking I'd never get over Jessica, but here we are."

"Here we are," Tracee repeated, agreeing with his words. Thinking back, she had been abnormally comfortable with both Winchester brothers. "Well, whether or not we believe it, it doesn't change how much I like you now." She felt Sam nod his head.

"Yeah. Like you told me before, knowing origins isn't going to change who we are," he said. Tracee smiled, flattered that he remembered what she had said so long ago. "How about the claiming, though? You think… you'd want to do it? Not because of the Powers, but-"

"I want to research more about it," Tracee answered quickly. Sam stiffened in response. "Maybe get the Madam to fill me in on how she acquired such information when my father doesn't even know about it. But…  _shyeah_ … it sounds like something I'd want with you." He relaxed then, seemingly pleased. "One day," she emphasized. Sam remained satisfied despite the emphasis. He lifted his head a bit, and then kissed her cheek. Tracee bit her lip before turning to face her lover. Her fingers lightly trailed up and down his side as she locked her gaze with his. "If you still want to be tied to me by the time I learn all I can about claiming, then… maybe we can take advantage of these primal urges of mine."

She chose not to explicitly state it either, but she hoped he understood. She wanted it, consciously and instinctively, but… she wasn't ready for it.  _So wait for me_. Sam suddenly smiled, and then nodded. God, why couldn't she have met him before Michael? Maybe she wouldn't be as jaded, and just go through with a claim. Her lover continued to be show how different he was from her ex. Sam shifted until his forehead touched hers. His fingers found their way into her hair. Tracee sighed out, perfectly content with his ministrations. At this rate, she just might be ready before the year was over. Regardless, it would be at their own pace.

The Slayer, unknowingly, snapped a puppet string.

0-0


	34. Twisted & Confused

Dean sighed heavily after catching the bright red stress ball. With his back against the bed, he stared up at the ceiling for a few seconds before tossing the ball in the air again. He was bored. It was the familiar type of boredom that struck in the morning hours of trying to find a job. Sam was the one in the middle actually trying to find something. Sitting at a desk with his laptop opened, he focused completely on the task at hand and ignored Dean's repetitive movements of tossing and catching the ball. Tracee was nowhere to be found. This early in the morning, she was probably finishing up her exercise routine. The absence of her sword was further indication. So the only thing he could do was wait for an announcement of a job.

As though on cue, the doorknob of their motel room rattled. Dean sat upright, eyeing the door as it opened. Tracee came through, balancing two small cups. They were really wedged between her chest and her arm. The sword was tucked in between her arm and side. The other arm had been used to open the door. "Okay. No, its fine," she said into her phone, which was pressed between her ear and shoulder. The tank shut the door behind her with her foot, and then walked further into the room. She carefully pocketed the key into Sam's jacket, which looked to be swallowing her form, before moving her hand and actually holding her cell phone. " _Shyeah_ , I'll let them know. Thanks, and good luck with your thing..." She nodded her head, stopping near Sam. "Alright, see you around." Curious, Dean waited as Tracee snapped her phone shut, and then pocketed it, too. "Good morning," she greeted, passing a cup to Sam.

"Thanks," he replied with a smile. Tracee leaned towards him, kissing his cheek. "Good work out?"

" _Shyeah_ ," she stated, moving away from him. She approached Dean, holding a cup out to him. "That was Jo," she announced before he could question. "She wanted to know if we were interested in a case in Connecticut. Since we're only a state over, I told her we might pass through if we didn't already have something.  _Do_  we have something?" She sat on the bed opposite of Dean's.

"Zilch," Sam said. "Well, I was looking into something that happened a month ago…" He took a sip of his coffee before continuing. "A girl went missing and her boyfriend was found in their bed, blood everywhere. Police found a weird powder near the crime scene, but aren't actually saying what it was or if it had anything to do with the death. I was looking, but nothing else has happened like that around the area, so… What's Jo got?"

"Cornwall is the name," Tracee said, setting down her sword on the bed next to her. She then shrugged off Sam's jacket, revealing the sports bra underneath. Sam turned in his chair to give his full attention. "In the past couple of weeks, two accidents happened at this hotel—Pierpont. A woman drowned in a bathtub, and then a few days ago, a man fell to his death. Weird thing is, the woman had bruises as though someone held her down and the man's head snapped so that his face aligned with his back." Dean winced, imagining the gruesome fall and the way the body must have looked. Terrible way to go. "Jo's mom told her about it, but she and Ash are on the other side of the country hunting a Banshee, she thinks."

"So they're talking again?" Dean questioned, prying the lip from his cup.

"If you call sending postcards and communicating through voicemail talking, but I guess it's the only way for them to make an effort after that big blow up," Tracee muttered. "So are we going to Connecticut?"

"Sure," Dean answered with a shrug.

"Great, so I'll take a shower while you guys pack up and we'll go," Tracee said, standing. With a pep in her step, and not waiting for a response, she headed into the bathroom, scooping up her bag as she went. Dean shook his head as the door shut behind her. It was business as usual. Not that he expected much to change, but things hadn't changed at all. They had spent a few weeks looking for more information on the Demon. Sam had insisted on confirmation despite reassurances. They had found nothing. Short of kidnapping and torturing a demon for themselves—which they were not going to do—they hadn't come across another type of confirmation. After a bit of useless research, they had all decided to take the 'come what may' approach.

Dean narrowed his eyes as he watched Sam begin packing up their things. He, himself, stayed put on the bed. Despite the time in between, none of them had brought up  _the incident_. What Missouri had told them seemed to be a waking dream. Sometimes, Dean questioned if it had been from his imagination the way they stayed silent about it. Claiming and Champions. The claiming thing—fine. He got it. It made sense, considering. Besides, it wasn't totally weird to the point of not understanding. It was like marriage, right? Without divorce. He got it. They got it. It was something for the two of them to discuss, anyway. Dean was in no way involved with that. He couldn't imagine having to tie himself to another person in an unbreakable, empathic, bond, though. That was just plain weird. Talk about a lack of privacy. But of course his brother wanted something like that. Tracee hadn't spoken her mind about it, so right now, the claim thing was up in the air.

It was the Champion thing that threw him for a loop. The elephant in the room. It was there, huge and constant, but none of the three had the guts to bring it up. Maybe Sam and Tracee had already talked about it between themselves, but clearly they weren't going to plainly state the obvious. The  _unbelievable_  obvious. They were all… fated to each other. Dean frowned, teeth clamping around the rim of his cup. It had been a month since Missouri had told them the far-fetched idea that the three of them had a bond that had been written before they were even born—all to make sure the Slayer would stay alive for whatever potential.

Now, he was all for keeping Tracee alive, and he trusted Missouri, but this was all…  _crazier_  than what he was used to. Dean didn't believe in destiny, but apparently, he had one, whether he wanted to or not. And that was the issue—what he couldn't wrap his head around. He wanted to fight it. It was a matter of principle, really. No one was the boss of him, right? But at the same time, this whole thing involved people he actually gave a crap about. His brother and, if he was all the way honest, his best friend. At the end of the day, he would try his hardest to keep them both safe, so maybe it didn't matter regardless. Still…

"Dean…!" Sam's voice snapped him out of his thoughts. He focused on his brother, noticing the annoyance matched the voice. "You're not gonna help?"

"Not until I've finished, at least, half this coffee," Dean replied, lifting the cup for emphasis. Sam snorted and rolled his eyes. Instead of retorting, he went back to packing. Dean held back a sigh. It had been a month. He really needed to stop thinking about it. It was clear that they weren't thinking about it, so he shouldn't either. Even if it was a gigantic elephant. Fine, though. He would smother it for now. So Dean relaxed and finished off his cup of coffee... slowly, so Sam did all the work. By the time Tracee had come out of the bathroom, they were packed and ready to go.

The drive to Connecticut had been quick. They had only stopped for gas, and snacks, once before finally reaching the target location. Dean parked the car and eyed the hotel. It wasn't the standard hotel at all. It looked more like a small mansion. Even he could tell it was old. Feeling a grin spread across his face, he got out of the Impala. "Dude, this is sweet!" he exclaimed, shutting the door. "I never get to work jobs like this!"

"Like what?" Sam questioned, curious. Dean turned to him to see that he had already opened the back door of the car. Tracee had gotten out, and was in the middle of holding his bag out to him. She, too, appeared curious by his clear excitement.

"Old-school haunted houses," Dean answered. He opened the backdoor on the driver side and grabbed his own bag. "You know—fog, secret passageways… sissy British accents."

" _Oi_ …" Tracee said, half-heartedly, shouldering her red bag.

"Might even run into Fred and Daphne while we're inside," Dean continued as the three of them made their way to the entrance of the hotel. He chuckled lightly, thinking about the gorgeous red head. Probably one of his first crushes. " _Hmm_ , Daphne—love her." Trace snorted. "What? Don't tell me you didn't love  _Scooby-Doo_. If not, we can't be friends anymore." She only made a face at him as though she couldn't believe he had thought to question it. Of course, the tiny tank would have grew up watching. It was a classic, and she was a hardcore mystery solver. "Bet you had a crush on Shaggy."

"Why would you assume that?"

"Because he's tall and lanky… like some other guy I know," Dean answered. Sam laughed sarcastically, picking up the teasing jab. "Don't tell me it was Fred—guy's a wad."

" _Nah_ , it was totally Velma," Tracee said. Dean stopped, turning to face her in disbelief, but she was already distracted. She turned as well, looking towards the car. "I forgot my iPod. Give me a second." Without waiting for a response, she headed back towards the Impala. Dean stared at her departing back for a second before swiveling his head in Sam's direction. His brother hadn't reacted to the confession, and was now sporting a confused expression, but it was pointed at Dean.

"Dude, you don't think it's weird that your girlfriend had a crush on chick?" he asked.

"It's  _Tracee_ ," Sam said as though that was answer enough. Dean gave him a look. Sam sighed. "She's attracted to  _intellect_ , Dean. Doesn't matter what shape holds it. That's why she likes  _Ash-_ " Per usual of mentioning the mullet-wearing genius, his brother appeared constipated. "-so much. Heck, one time, I caught her making eyes at Bobby."

"She's so weird," Dean muttered.

Sam only chuckled, no doubt still enamored with the tiny tank. He then tilted his head to the side, looking behind Dean. "Hey, is that…?" Conversation completely forgotten, he moved forward, up the steps. He paused, pointing at a flower pot. Dean stepped to his brother's side, leaning forward to inspect what had caught Sam's attention. "You see this pattern here?" He tapped a finger on the single design. The symbol hadn't been anywhere else on the flower pot. Obviously, it hadn't been the original intent. Someone else had come along and carved the design into the stone. "It's a  _quincunx_. That's a five-spot." Dean wrinkled his brow and repeated, trying to get his brain to remember why it sounded familiar. Oh right.

"That's used for  _hoodoo_  spell work, isn't it?" he asked.

"Right," Sam stated. "You fill this thing with bloodweed, you've gotta powerful charm to ward off enemies."

"Yeah, except I don't see any bloodweed," Dean muttered, eyes on the lookout. On the opposite side of the flower pot, there was another, but that one didn't have the symbol. His gaze shifted to the mansion-like hotel, giving a deeper inspection. It definitely didn't give off hoodoo vibes. "Don't you think this place is a little to  _uh_ … white-meat for hoodoo?"

Sam shrugged, unsure. Well, it was something to think about. For now, finding the quincunx was just the first thing out of the ordinary. If they were going to figure anything out, they needed more. So with that thought in mind, Dean continued up the steps and headed into the entrance. Sam followed close behind. Inside, the foyer was pretty much deserted. The design matched the outside. Definitely old-school. There was a desk, though, probably an addition to service customers. Suddenly, a woman walked towards them, heels clicking against the hardwood floor. Her smile was friendly as she went behind the desk, standard greeting of a customer service employee.

"Hi," Dean greeted. "Yeah, I'd like a room for a couple nights." Before she could respond to the request, the sound of giggling interrupted. Dean barely glanced back, but he noticed that the giggling belonged to a little girl. She had disappeared around a corner too fast for him to see anything else. The woman immediately apologized, so maybe the playing girl was her responsibility. Dean turned back to her as Sam told her the little incident had been fine. Before, he had given her a quick onceover, but maybe she was a mother. Although her eyes were bright, she did have a subtle maturity.

"Well,  _um_ … Congratulations—you could be some of our final guests," she told them.

"Well, that sounds vaguely ominous," Dean joked.

"No, I'm sorry." She smiled, shoulders relaxing just a bit. "I mean, we're closing at the end of the month." Her eyes shifted between the two. "Oh, let me guess—you guys are here antiquing?" Dean blinked once, finding the guess to be a little weird. But it was a cover, so he wasn't about to discard it. Might as well go with the flow. It saved them the trouble of thinking up their own.

"How'd you know?" he asked, going along with it.

"Oh, you just look the type," she replied. There was a particular knowing glint in her eye. Dean thought that, plus the remark, had been even weirder. But again, it was the cover story, so he quickly nodded, trying not to let the bewilderment show on his face. Not that the woman noticed, anyway. She was too busy finalizing the transaction. "So, a king-sized bed?" she questioned. The fake smile immediately dropped as he tried to process that assumptive question. Apparently, Sam caught the implication quicker.

"What? No," he protested. "No, no… We're… Two queen-sized beds, if you have it. We're just brothers." He pointed his thumb behind him. "My girlfriend's right outside." His awkward explanation caused the woman's cheeks to flare red. She ducked her head, clearly embarrassed that she had gotten their relationship so horribly wrong. Her nervous tittering only made Dean frown. Look the type, she had said. What the heck did that mean? Plastering on another fake smile, he asked her flat out what she had meant. The woman opened and shut her mouth, but no words left. "You know, speaking of antiques-" Sam decided to throw her a bone. She took that bone and ran with it, clearly grateful she didn't need to look in his eyes anymore. Dean pressed his lips together, looking down to examine his clothes and wondering why she had assumed. "You have a really interesting urn on the front porch. Where'd you get that?"

"You know, I have no idea. It's been there forever," the woman said. The shift in conversation gave her the courage to finish the transaction. "Here you go, Mr. Mahagoff." She handed his card back to him, and then slapped the bell on the counter. She swiftly turned, reaching for one the keys inside of one of the many cubbyholes. She then turned back around, holding the key out to him. "You'll be staying in room 238." Dean merely grunted as he took the key. "Sherwin, could you show these gentlemen to their room?" He turned, along with Sam, to see an elderly man approaching them. The man barely had any hair left, but his blue eyes were sharp as he looked back and forth between them.

"Let me guess," he said, after the appraisal. " _Antiquers_?"

Dean opened his mouth, more than a little annoyed. Seriously, what the hell? How were people just assuming something like this? But before he could give any type of retort, Tracee made her entrance. "I can't find my iPod!" Her voice, louder than necessary, caused all heads to shift in her direction. Then it struck him. Oh. Right. Of course, this wasn't the first time people assumed him and Sam were batting for the other team. But it had been too long since the last time it happened because Tracee had always been there when they checked into any kind of motel or hotel. But still…  _looked the type_?

"Did you check your pockets?" Sam asked, completely facing his girlfriend, and seemingly not caring about assumptions. Dean, however, huffed lightly.

"Of course I ch-" Tracee halted, and then her lips formed an 'o.' "I didn't check  _your_  pockets." Sam slip a hand inside his jacket pocket. After a few seconds, he stated that the iPod was safely tucked away, as well as her cell phone. Tracee sighed in relief before finally noticing the new faces. She blinked once. "What'd I miss?" Dean huffed louder.

"Shall I carry your bag, sir?" the old man, Sherwin, offered.

Apparently, he had chosen to ignore the entire assumption, too. Stifling his annoyance, Dean had handed off his bag, and had followed Sherwin towards the steps. He had lead them on the path, but 'carrying' had seemed a bit too much for him because not even a half minute later, he had decided to just drag it. Behind him, Sam had whispered the reason for the awkward atmosphere that Tracee had come into. She, of course, had found it hilarious. She had barely contained the chuckles. And the way Sherwin had prattled on about how the hotel had been a palace back in his day had only made Dean's irritation grow. At least he had gotten the woman's name from the prattling. Susan, the owner—soon to be former owner—had tried so hard to keep the place up and running. But her efforts had been in vain. Shame, but stuff like it happened every day. Then after all that, Sherwin had the nerve to passive-aggressively demand a tip.

Dean's excitement for this particular job was definitely starting to fade. The longer he paced the length of the room, the quicker it diminished. Unbothered, Sam had immediately began to sift through information collected about the two victims. He sat in a chair, face relaxed despite the concentration on the paper in his hand. Tracee sat on the left arm of the chair, eyes scanning over a paper she had snagged from Sam. "Would you stop pacing?" she asked, without looking up from the words on the page. Dean made a face at her, but was ignored. Begrudgingly, sat down on the edge of one of the queen-sized beds. It was probably one of the most uncomfortable beds he had ever slept on. Probably well past the eight years thing.

"Damn it!" Dean grumbled, attempting to balance himself. "Why the hell would anyone want to stay here? I'm amazed they kept in business this long."

"To each their own," Tracee remarked. She finally looked up from the paper she held, teasing grin stretched on her face. Next to her, Sam snorted, and then tried to covering it up by clearing his throat. Dean narrowed his eyes, getting a sense that they were both having a go at him. "The first victim was forty-three at the time of her death. Family and friends were both shocked by the apparent suicide. She was a successful realtor that was handling the sale of the hotel."

"Larry Williams was the second victim," Sam continued. He shrugged a bit. "Looks like he was just moving some stuff out to Goodwill."

"Well there's a connection—they were both tied up in shutting this place down," Dean said.

"Yeah, maybe someone here doesn't want to leave, and they're using hoodoo to fight back," Sam suggested.

"This realtor, I understand, but the second victim… If the connection has to do with preventing the shutdown of this hotel, why go after a simple mover?" Tracee questioned. "Seems a bit of a lackluster. I mean, why not go after the actual seller?"

"Well, the witch doctor could be  _her_ ," Dean said.

"The motivation would be contradictory," Sam stated. "Maybe Sherwin…? He seemed really upset about the hotel closing."

" _Hm_ … Of course, the most troubling question is why these people assume we're  _gay_?" Dean muttered. Sam and Tracee exchanged a look, both of their lips twitched, clearly amused. "What…?"

"Well, you  _are_  kinda butch," Sam mentioned. "Probably think you're overcompensating."

"Don't lie to him, darling—it's because he's  _pretty_ ," Tracee said, throwing a grin his way. Dean stuck his tongue out at her. The tiny tank merely laughed. "Seriously, you've got eyelashes that most girls would kill for. And ever since you started using my facial scrub, you've become prettier." Dean glowered as he crossed his arms. It wasn't his fault that he liked the way his skin felt afterwards. And that stuff smelled really good, too. Like peaches. No wonder Sam couldn't go an hour without kissing on his girlfriend. "Your brother on the other hand is quite…" Tracee paused, looking towards the ceiling in thought. " _Big_."

"Stop it," Dean told her.

"I wasn't even thinking that way… even though it's true," Tracee said. Dean rolled his eyes and muttered a 'gross' under his breath. "Besides, you two have subtle similarities that most people wouldn't bother to look for, so they assume you're a couple instead of family. Especially if I'm not there, though I'm pretty sure they can just assume that I'm a beard. You two do make such a handsome couple, after all."

"Right…" Dean rolled his eyes again, but a chuckle slipped out anyway. "Okay, so what are your Slayer senses telling you?"

"Since I've walked through the door, there has been  _something_ ," Tracee admitted. "But it keeps flickering in and out. I wonder if it's this hoodoo magic, or something else… I'm not sure if I can even sense magic."

"We gotta investigate to find out more, so let's get on with it," Dean announced, standing from the bed. Both Sam and Tracee nodded in agreement, and then stood from the chair. They headed towards the door just as a thought suddenly struck. "Wait, Trace…! Were you trying to say that  _I'd_  be doing the catching?!" The tiny tank merely cackled as she opened the door. "Trace!" She ignored him and continued on her way. Dean turned towards his brother in disbelief. If anyone was going to be  _catching_  in this hypothetic scenario, it certainly wouldn't be himself. Sam only shrugged, and then followed after his girlfriend. Huffing again, he walked forward, leaving the room and shutting the door behind him.

The trio walked down the hallway, on the lookout for anything peculiar. There were a lot of weird decorations, but nothing really jumped out as supernatural. Then Sam brought attention to a vase, and showed another quincunx just inside the rim. It was the second one so far. A third one would mean intentional. Obviously, hoodoo had something to do with this particular job. Dean continued on to the last room on the right. The signed marked it as private, so of course he took it as an invitation to go snooping. He knocked first, not as a courtesy, but to see if anyone had been in the room. Too bad, the hotel's owner opened the door a few seconds later. Dean greeted her with a pleasant smile, but she still wouldn't look him directly in the eye. Instead, she focused on Tracee, who was wedged in between Sam and himself.

"Hi," Susan returned. "Everything okay with your room?" Of course, having not expected her to be in the room they had wanted to snoop in, both Dean and Sam fumbled with the answer, words fusing together in a garbled mess to assure Susan that the room was fine. Though, to be honest, he could do without the toddler clothes nailed to the walls. The owner stood there, staring at them awkwardly for a second too long before she attempted to flee. "Well, I was just… in the middle of packing, so…" Obviously, it was a hint, but Dean looked beyond her into the room.

"Hey, are those antique dolls?" he questioned, faking enthusiasm. Might as well use the cover story. The room had been filled with porcelain dolls as far as he could see. Susan pressed her lips together, but gave a slight nod. "Cuz this one here—he's got a major doll collection back home." He gestured towards his brother, who appeared shocked and annoyed by the comment. Dean grinned. "Don't you? Huh?" He raised his eyebrows, silently urging him to go along with it, too. Sam clenched his jaw before shifting his attention back towards Susan.

"Yup.  _Big_  time," he told her, looking majorly uncomfortable. Dean's grin grew. It was kinda payback. Pretty, though he may be,  _Sam_  was the most girly. He would play that angle up if it helped to continue the job. And because it was funny, watching his brother's face contort like that.

" _Big_  time," Dean confirmed. His cheeks ached from grinning so hard. He turned back to Susan. "You think he could—well,  _we_  could come in and take a look?"

"I don't know…" she appeared, uncertain.

"Please? I mean, he  _loves_  them," Dean insisted. He ignored the way his brother turned towards him, not trying to hide his irritation anymore. "He's not gonna tell you this, but he's always dressing them up in these little, tiny outfits. I mean, you'd make his day. Isn't that right, Trace?" He nudged her with his elbow. Without missing a beat, Tracee dutifully nodded her head.

"My lover  _does_  enjoy his antiques," she replied. " _Don't_  you, darling?" She even slapped his ass to really drive it home. Any other time, it would have been gotten an eye roll, but this time it was absolutely hilarious. Dean pressed his lips together, trying not to erupt in laughter. Sam wound himself up so tight, but eventually caved.

"It's true," he forced himself to say while relaxing his shoulders.

"Okay," Susan finally agreed with a crooked smile. "Come on in." She stepped to the side, allowing all three to enter. Sam went in first, throwing the dirtiest look he could muster at the both of them. Dean and Tracee stifled chuckles as they followed. As Susan shut the door behind them, Dean took the time to examine the rest of the room. As he had thought, dolls were everywhere. In chairs, on the wall, on tables. He would hate to be in this room at night. All those eyes just looking at him. Creepy. "I suppose they are a little creepy," Susan said, snapping him out of his thoughts. Oh. Maybe he had said that out loud. "But they've been in the family forever. A lot of sentimental value."

"W.P.S…" Tracee muttered, with a shake of her head. She clasped her hands behind her back as she closely examined a few dolls on the shelf.

"What?" Susan said, wrinkling her brow.

"What is this—the hotel?" Sam hurriedly asked in an effort to distract.

"Yeah, that's right," Susan shifted her focus to Sam, seemingly proud. "Exact replica—custom built."

Sam circled the doll house, disappearing for a second because something had obviously caught his eye. When he lifted again, he held a doll in his hand, commenting that the head had been twisted around. He shared a look with Dean, probably thinking about the second victim's death. If it wasn't a coincidence, it sounded like voodoo. Susan, however, didn't find it odd. She merely told them that Tyler, presumably her daughter, might have done it. So that had been the tyke's name? Speaking of her, the little girl came into the room through a doorway, calling out for her mother.

"Maggie's being mean," she complained, not sparing the other occupants of the room attention.

"Tyler, tell her I said to be nice, okay?" Susan replied. So she had two kids? Huh. Hadn't seen the other one…

"Hey, Tyler," Sam greeted with a smile. The little girl blinked once, and then turned her eyes towards him. Slowly, Sam came from around the replica of the hotel, showing the figurine in his hand. "I see you broke your doll. Want me to fix it?"

"I didn't break it," Tyler said, stepping to her mother's side. "I found it like that."

"Oh, well… Maybe Maggie did it?"

"No, neither of us did it," Tyler seemed adamant. "Grandma would get mad if we broke him." Susan attempted to assure her daughter, but Dean had jumped on the grandma bit. He immediately imagined a seemingly frail old woman casting spells to keep invaders from taking away her home and creepy dolls. "Grandma Rose," Tyler continued, turning eyes to Dean. "These are all her toys."

"Oh really… Where's Grandma Rose now?" he asked, casually. Tyler innocently answered that the old lady was in her room.

"Is it possible to speak with her?" Tracee questioned, also catching on. "I'm sure my lover would love to gush over their collective doll-"

"No," Susan sharply cut in. Suspicious, all eyes turned to her. She ducked her head a bit, but her voice remained firm. "I mean, I'm afraid that's impossible. My… mother's been very sick and,  _uh_ , she's not taking visitors." That was the point where she found their presence uncomfortable and kindly ushered them out. Huh. Even more suspicious, but the three decided not to protest. The door shut as they began making their way down the hallway again, heading back to their room.

"Well, what do you think?" Dean asked as they walked. "Dolls, hoodoo, mysteriously shut-in grandma?"

"Well, dolls are used in all kinds of voodoo and hoodoo like curses and binding spells," Sam stated.

"Yeah, maybe we found our witch doctor," Dean said. "Alright, I'll go see what I can dig up on booming granny. Trace, you keep looking around the hotel. See if you can pinpoint this flickering something you sensed before." The tiny tank nodded her head. "Sam, go get online, check old obits, freak accidents—that sorta thing. See if she's whacked anyone before."

"Right," Sam acknowledged. He turned towards the door to their room while Tracee continued down the hall.

"Don't go surfing porn," Dean warned him. "It's not the kinda whacking I mean."

"You caught me  _once_!" Sam protested indignantly. "Let it go!"

Shared laughter echoed in the hall as they all went their separate ways.

 

0-0

 

Another one. It had happened right under their noses. From the looks of it, the police had said it had been a suicide. Death by hanging. But Dean knew. Susan had been shaken from it, but she had mentioned the poor guy had worked for the company that had bought the place. If the motive hadn't been clear before, it had certainly been made clear by this recent death. Whatever was doing this—killing these people—did not want the hotel being sold. They had to get in front of this thing before someone else kicked the bucket. Hell, the police might even start investigating the current owner, thinking they found a link with all the deaths.

Dean sighed through his nose, and then headed back into the hotel. He had stayed behind, wanting to make sure the cops hadn't turned around for more questioning. He found Tracee in the hallway that lead to the stairs. It looked as though she was about to head up, too. "You saw what happened?" she asked. Dean grimly nodded his head. Side by side, they went up the stairs. "I just finished talking to the few other tenants. They're right freaked about it, and are checking out immediately. We'll be the only guests here besides the staff, and that's mainly a skeleton crew." He supposed that was a good thing. Fewer people to worry about. And maybe they would get some type of warning when another person involved in selling the hotel checked in. "I found a large number of five-spots before this happened, though. They're scattered everywhere in and around the hotel. So it doesn't make sense to me that hoodoo is behind these murders."

"How'd you figure?" Dean questioned.

"Well, Samuel did say that five-spots are used for wards—protective magic," Tracee explained. "All those symbols I found shows that whoever placed them wanted desperately to keep something out. They wouldn't just switch to dark magic. I'm thinking that the magic wore off, or something, and whatever they were trying to keep out got in. So maybe we are dealing with someone who knows hoodoo, but they're not doing the killing." Dean had to admit, it made sense. And Tracee had a knack for sussing out motivation.

"Did you manage to find whatever you were sensing?"

"No, bloody thing didn't stay in the same place for more than a few seconds. I'm still not sure what it could be. What did you find?"

"Nothing much. Talked to as many employees as I could," Dean answered. "They don't know much about dear ol' granny except for the fact that she mostly keeps to herself. In fact, a lot of them told me that they've never seen her." Almost to their room, he picked up the pace. Tracee did, too, in order to keep up. "Even if you're right, we still have to get the reason for the hoodoo so we can figure out what this thing is and how to kill it."

" _Shyeah_ , I know," Tracee agreed.

They approached the door to their room to find it partially opened with the key still sticking out of the lock. Frowning at the of weirdness of it, Dean opened the door wider, giving space for Tracee to move in ahead of him. He took the key out of the locked, and then shut the door once he was inside the room. He was vaguely aware of the darkened room, and even briefly wondered why Sam had chosen to not turn on more lights, but mostly his brain was on finding out more information about the root of the problem. "There's been another one," he announced, glancing at Sam. His brother sat in the room's chair. Odd that he didn't react to the news. In fact, there was no reaction at all. "Some guy just hung himself in his room."

"Yeah, I saw," Sam murmured.

"We gotta figure this out and fast," Dean continued, rummaging through his bag. In another part of the room—closer to the bathroom—Tracee, too, went through her things, probably looking for her handbook. It would be great if she could find something in that thing that indicated hoodoo users. "What'd you find out about granny?" It took a little more than a beat, but Sam finally answered.

"You're bossy," he said. The answer hadn't at all been expected. Dean halted his rummaging and sharply turned to face his brother, who hadn't moved from his position in the chair. Maybe he had misheard. Sam had been mumbling, after all. A 'what?' left his mouth as he stared closer. "You're bossy," Sam repeated, spreading his arms out as though his statement was obvious. His head drooped a little, glassy eyes managing to seek Dean out in the dark. "And  _short_." He snorted and let out an ugly chuckle, letting his head swing freely.

"Are you drunk?" Dean honestly couldn't believe it, but he recognized the behavior.

"Yeah…  _So_? Stupid."

"Dean." Tracee caught his attention before he could retort. He turned towards where her voice had come from. She was now standing over the mini bar. There were different types of hard liquor on top. All of them were empty. Dean pursed his lips, lifting his eyes to meet Tracee's confused ones. Hell, he was confused, himself. Sam was a lightweight. It didn't take much for him to become three sheets to the wind. But he had downed, at least, ten bottles. Yeah, they were mini bottles, but it was hard liquor all the same. Second, they were working a job. It didn't make sense that Sam would drink at all. Frowning, Tracee made her way over to him. She knelt down in front of him, hand finding his knee. "Darling, what's wrong? Why did you drink?"

Sam visibly sighed, eyes darting side to side as though he couldn't look Tracee in the eye. He shifted uncomfortably in his seat. "That guy who hung himself," he began. His line of sight still didn't focus on Tracee. Sam wouldn't look Dean's way either. Like he was embarrassed or something. "… I couldn't save him." What?  _That_  was the issue? How could Sam have known? No way could he have prevented it, and so Dean told him so. "That's an  _excuse_ , Dean." Sam glared at him, and the moon's light from outside the window reflected the welled tears in his eyes. "I should have  _found_  a way to save him."

"Samuel…" Tracee lifted her hand and cupped his cheek, causing Sam to look her way. "It's not like you knew the specifics and chose not to do anything. None of us even knew he was here, so don't feel guilty. You know we can't save  _everyone_." He suddenly slammed his hand down on the table beside him. The smack of skin and table caused Dean to flinch, but Tracee ripped her hand from his face and abruptly stood. She stared at her boyfriend, eyes wide.

"No, you don't understand!" Sam nearly shouted. "The more people I save, the more I can change…"

"Change  _what_?" Dean blurted.

"My  _destiny_ , Dean!" Sam retorted earnestly, fingers curled against his chest. Dean rolled his eyes and let out a sigh. "I-I-I gotta save as many people as I can so I can push myself away from what dad thought I was gonna be… So I can get closer to actually being a… a Champion." His eyes slid towards Tracee. " _Your_  Champion… I-I-I have to become worthy of that. I want that. I  _want_  that." The tiny tank blinked, mouth opening, but actual words failing.

"All right, time for bed," Dean felt the need to intervene. He stepped forward, grabbing his brother's forearms and hauling him from the chair. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Tracee back away, head bowed and hands wringing. "Come on, Sasquatch. Come on." Sam stumbled into him, muttering that he needed Dean to watch out for him. Stifling another eye roll, the older brother maneuvered the younger one over to his bed. "Yeah, I always do."

"No," Sam resisted a little, grabbing Dean by the shoulders. "No, no, no! You have to  _watch out_  for me… all right?" The emphasis caused Dean to halt his movements. As drunk as he was, Sam appeared serious with the demand. "And if I ever… turn into something I'm not… someone who isn't worthy to be claimed or-or a Champion…" He paused, swaying a little. Shaking his head, he focused again. "You have to kill me." Dean scowled and did not stop the eye roll. Sam's grip on him increased and he shook him hard. "Dean, dad told you to do it! You  _have_  to!"

"Yeah, and I told you that dad was an ass!" Dean growled out. It had been months, but the mentioning of John Winchester still caused frustration to surge inside him. That man honestly expected Dean to murder his own brother, and now Sam knew about it and apparently decided to hop on the fratricide train. This was exactly why John should not have said anything. "I mean, you don't do that! You don't lay this kinda crap on your kids right before you die! And I  _already_  told you killing you is not an option! So no." Sam flinched away from him, and Dean took the opportunity to sit him down on the bed.

"No, please, Dean…!" Sam grabbed at the front of Dean's shirt. "You're the only one who can do it! You have to! You have to! Be-Before I get claimed… if-if you see me slipping, you have to do it— _promise_!"

"Bitch. I  _said_  no," Dean replied firmly.

"Dean, please, you have to promise me," Sam begged, becoming teary-eyed again. "I-I can't be evil  _and_  hers. I won't do it. I can't do that to her.  _Promise_  me!"

Dean scowled again, honestly fed up with his brother's drunken shenanigans. He couldn't be reasoned with in this state. He was  _exhausting._  Dean had half a mind to make the stupid promise just to shut him up. Probably wouldn't remember in the morning, anyway… And on the off chance Sam did remember, it could be explained then. Dean opened his mouth to give the false promise, but before he could utter a word, Tracee beat him to the punch. "Enough," she said, voice calm as she stepped closer to the other side of the bed. Dean shifted his gaze from his brother to her, watching as she lifted her hand.

Her fingers slid in Sam's hair from the back, and with a quick yank, his head snapped back towards Tracee, effectively distracting him from the promise. Only thing was, he closed his eyes and let out the loudest, most sensual, moan that Dean had no idea his brother was capable of making. He felt himself glowering as his brain processed what his ears had heard. Sam snapped his eyes open wide, and then clamped both hands over his mouth. And then the little shit had the nerve to  _giggle_. "Gross…" Dean shook his head and rolled his eyes, taking a few steps back from the bed.

Paying no mind to the comment, Tracee lowered her knees to the bed, other hand gripping Sam's left shoulder. "Let's sleep this off, you silly man," she said, staring down at him. Sam removed his hands from his mouth and moved them around the back of Tracee's head to pull her down for an upside down kiss. It was a brief touch of their lips before she reared back and swatted at his hands. "No. No drunken kisses for you." Sam whined, but didn't object to Tracee shifting his body so that he could lay face down on the bed. He planted his face in one of the pillows, hugging it with both arms. Tracee sat down beside him, soothingly rubbing his back. Soon enough, his brother's light snoring filled the silence of the room. Only then did Tracee take her hand away. She released a heavy sigh and shut her eyes.

"Trace…" Dean began, but honestly, he was unsure on what to say. It hadn't been the first time she had witnessed Sam drunk off his ass, but it had been the first time he had veered from juvenile to angry to weepy in a period of a minute. Normally, it would be just juvenile. It must have thrown her off balance, witnessing a new side of her boyfriend. Hell, Dean had been thrown off balance, too, especially with that nonsense Sam had spouted.

Tracee held up her hand, stopping him from trying to think of anything to say. "We're still on a case," she stated. She took another deep breath before turning to him. "We need to close it before someone else dies. I'll stay with Sam. You go get so more information. Someone here has to know something." Dean nodded his head, already thinking of a particular person. Sherwin. In the  _back in my day_  speech, he had told them he had practically grown up at this hotel. "Once you've got something, come back, get some sleep, and we'll solve this thing tomorrow."

"Sounds like a plan," Dean said.

The tiny tank gave a slow nod before she focused her attention back on the snoring Winchester. Dean watched her remove Sam's shoes before snapping out of it, and heading towards the door. He briefly wondered what this drunken affair would turn into. Another incident they wouldn't bring up? Another elephant in the room? Probably since it tied so closely with the first elephant. Still, Dean had thought they had gone over this whole saving and killing thing. There was no ifs, ands, or buts about it. The only option—the only thing that mattered—was keeping Sam safe. He had thought his brother understood that. Clearly, he had not. Sighing to himself, Dean gave one last backwards glance at Sam, then Tracee, before leaving the room.

 

0-0

 

The next morning, Dean had woken up with Tracee in his bed. The sight of her snuggled up against him instead of being in bed with Sam hadn't been all that surprising considering last night, but it had been a while since she had switched partners. After carefully prying her arm from around him, Dean had went about doing his morning routine. By the time he had finished in the bathroom, Tracee had been up and ready for her shower. They had barely spoken two words, choosing not to comment on the sleeping arrangements or the lonely body of Sam Winchester in the next bed over. The silence had only been broken with the suggestion of breakfast. So while they had been out, they had gone over theories about the job. They had pretty much reached an agreement on their next course of action by the time they had returned to the hotel.

After unlocking the door, Dean entered the room, eyes immediately settling on the opposite bed. Sam was no longer on top, clinging to the pillow. He walked further in, followed by Tracee. The key to the room was pocketed as she nudged the door closed with her foot. Miserable groans reached Dean's ears, prompting him to turn his attention towards the bathroom. On his knees, Sam hunched over the toilet bowl. Practically hugged the thing. Despite the reason for it, Dean couldn't help but find the image amusing.

"How you feeling, Sammy?" he asked, feeling a grin spread. The only answer he received was more groaning. Dean chuckled lightly. "I guess mixing whiskey and jäger wasn't such a gangbuster idea, was it?" He shrugged off his jacket and placed it at the foot of his bed. Taking a glance at Tracee, he saw her frowning as she set down the plastic bag she carried. Apparently, she didn't find this nearly as amusing. Maybe he could set her mind at ease. "Hey, I bet you don't remember a thing from last night, do you?"

"Oh, I can still taste the tequila," Sam whimpered, hoarsely. Must have been throwing up for a while. Dean was half surprised his brother had made it to the bathroom in time. Still, it was a bit of a relief that he couldn't remember anything. Dean glanced at Tracee again. She hadn't lost the frown, so it hadn't been a relief to her. In fact, her frown had become a bit more prominent as she pulled items from the bag.

"You know, there's a really good hangover remedy," Dean continued, slightly hoping that he could get, at least, a crack of a smile. "It's,  _um_ , a pork sandwich served up in a dirty ashtray." The sounds of his brother retching loudly echoed in the room.

"I  _hate_  you," Sam managed to get out.

"Dean," Tracee said, tone admonishing. She gave him a look as she moved towards the bathroom. In her hands, she held a bottle of Gatorade and a bottle of pain relievers. She dropped down to her knees beside him. Sam lifted his head, pushing himself away from the toilet. He tried to give her a grateful smile, but it was not a pretty sight. To her credit, Tracee kept a straight face even though Dean was sure the smell coming from the toilet and her boyfriend wasn't all that pleasant. "Dean got some more information last night. We think this shut-in grandmother was most likely taught hoodoo by her Creole caretaker," she explained as she opened the bottle of pills. Dean chose to make his way over. As he thought, the entire bathroom smelled like vomit. He grimaced as Tracee continued talking. "She is our biggest—and only—lead at the moment, so once the coast is clear, we'll head up and speak with her."

"Great… great," Sam murmured before throwing back his head and taking a large gulp from the bottle.

"Make sure you brush your teeth first," Dean said, leaning against the doorway. "Don't wanna scare her away with your breath before we can even ask questions."

"There's also crackers," Tracee mentioned. She shook loose two pills from the bottle before handing them off. "If you don't feel up to it, you can recover from this while Dean and I get a confirmation on whatever is killing here."

"No, I'll be fine. I'll go with you," Sam said. He took both pills at once, chasing them down with another large gulp of Gatorade. He sighed out, and then gave a better smile. "Thank you." Tracee, though, didn't respond to him. She merely stood and turned away to leave the bathroom. Sam stared, clearing baffled by her sudden indifference. Poor guy couldn't remember how he wound up in the doghouse, it seemed. Oh well. Whether or not he knew about the hole he dug, it was up to him to get himself out of it. No way was Dean going to interfere with their relationship if he could help it. Shaking his head, he, too, turned to go, leaving his brother in his own mess.

About an hour later, after Sam had stopped dry heaving and taken a shower, the three of them left their room, quietly making their way down the hall. Once again, the door marked private was firmly shut. Sam was the one to knock on the door, calling out to the owner. As they waited for a response, Dean and Tracee looked around in search of any bystanders. "Clear…?" Sam asked. The tiny tank gave a curt nod while Dean gave the go ahead. Sam dropped down, pulling his lock pick set. His fingers moved quickly, and soon enough, they gained access to the private room. Twisting the knob, Sam quietly pushed open the door and headed in first. Dean and Tracee wasted no time following after.

Once they were all in, Dean shut the door behind them. Susan was nowhere to be found in the room with the creepy dolls, so the three of them continued on to the next room. There was another door. Unlock the first, this one had been unlocked already, and so Dean pushed it open, revealing stairs to another level of the hotel. With Sam and Tracee tailing him, he led them up the stairs as quietly as possible. There were a few squeaky steps, but the sounds hadn't seemed to draw unwanted attention. They made it to the top without problem, and then made a left. At the end of the hall, a door was already opened. Making his approached to the door, Dean pushed against it, opening the door wider.

They were greeted by the sight of an old woman in a wheelchair. Her back was to them and she appeared to staring out of the window. Rain pelted against the glass, seemingly too mesmerizing to look away from because she did not react to their arrival in the room at all. "Mrs. Thompson…?" Sam called out politely. Still nothing. The three moved closer to the old woman. "Mrs. Thompson… Rose?" Sam tried again, louder than before. No reaction. They moved to get in front of her. Only then did the old woman respond, but it was only a shiver. Without moving the rest of her body, her eyes darted to each of them. "Hi, Mrs. Thompson," Sam greeted, lowering himself to appear as nonthreatening as possible. He even put on a smile. "We're not here to hurt you." Debatable, depending on what type of answers she gave, but Dean would let his brother talk first. "It's okay, we…" He trailed off, frowning. "Rose?" The old woman's lips parted, but she didn't speak. It almost sounded like she wanted to, though. Sam stood up straight, turning his attention to Dean and Tracee. He gestured with a tilt of his head before walking away from the supposed witch doctor. "This woman's had a stroke," he stated once they were standing a few feet away.

"How bad…? She looks paralyzed," Tracee muttered.

"She is," Sam confirmed.

"Yeah, but hoodoo's hands-on. You gotta mixed herbs and chant, build an altar," Dean said.

"So it can't be Rose," Sam replied. "Heck, maybe it's not even hoodoo."

"No, there's too many five-spots involved here, and everything we've gathered so far points to her being the source of hoodoo," Tracee stated.

"You know, she could be faking…" Dean suggested.

"Yeah, what do you want to do? Poke her with a stick?" Sam asked sarcastically. Dean studied the seemingly frail old woman. It wouldn't hurt to try… "Dude…! You're not gonna poke her with a  _stick_!" Tracee stared at him in disbelief, matching her boyfriend's expression to a T. Clearly, they were not onboard with that method. Damn. Something on his face must have given him away.

"What the hell?" A voice caught their attention before Dean could give any type of response. They all turned towards the door to see Susan had come into the room. "What are you doing in here?!" She rushed over to her mother, probably ignoring the jumbled of words that Dean and Sam blurted out. "Look at her! She's scared out of her wits!" Dean took a glance at the older Thompson, and honestly couldn't tell. "I want you out of my hotel in two minutes or I'm calling the cops!" Susan glared at them. Honestly, there was nothing to say in order to pacify her. Through her eyes, they were a trio of troublemakers that had scared her mother. Of course, she wanted them out. Besides, bringing police into this would cause more problems for them outside of this job. So lowering his head, Dean turned to go. Sam had already took a step in the direction of the door.

"No."

The unexpected rebuttal caused everyone to halt. Dean blinked once, and then focused on the one who had spoken. Her voice had been calm, but Tracee stared back at the owner of the hotel, eyes defiant and stance solid. This wasn't just Tracee Noland anymore. This was the Slayer, winding herself to launch into battle. Crap. Although Dean knew that she wouldn't actually attack an innocent, typically ignorant, person, that didn't stop the wariness that had bubbled up. Fleetingly, he thought about trying to convince her to let it go. They could always come back. But he also suspected his efforts to would be wasted at the moment.  _Predator_ , Dean thought. He had to force himself not to step away from her.

"Ex- _Excuse_  me…?" Susan sputtered, obviously not wrapping her head around the blatant denial of her demand.

"I. Said.  _No_." With each word she said, Tracee moved towards Susan. "We came here for a specific reason, and we're not leaving until that reason has been dealt with." The owner of the hotel stiffened with her proximity, taking a noticeable step away from her mother. Because what else would prey do in the face of a predator? Leave other prey behind to live another day. Dean narrowed his eyes, watching Tracee continue to stalk towards Susan. He wondered what had put her on edge. Any other time, she wouldn't have bothered. She would have agreed to leaving and coming back with a new plan. It would have been the most logical thing to do. But now, Dean got a sense that Tracee would say something like 'Fuck logic' if brought to her attention.

"Tracee, it's alright. We can-"

"Do  _not_ ," Tracee ordered, raising her hand without a backwards glance at them. She, instead, kept her gaze focused on Susan. Sam wisely decided not to finish his attempt at convincing her to flee for now. See? That had been the equivalent of  _fuck logic_. Tracee lowered her hand. She had stopped right before the back of Rose's wheelchair. "Now then, since your mother is incapable of talking right now, I suppose  _you_  will have to give us the answers we seek."

"You're insane… I'm calling the cops!" Susan jerked forward, probably intending to go around Tracee to get to the door, but the Slayer was faster. Before Dean knew it, Tracee had Susan up against the wall near the window. Trapping her without even touching her. Both hands had slammed against the wall on either side as she leaned in close. Now, he couldn't see Tracee's face, but he could see Susan's. The woman stared at the Slayer, eyes wide and lower lip trembling. For now, she was only startled, but sooner or later, the fear would set in. Slayer mode was not a joke.

"And tell them  _what_  exactly?" Tracee questioned. Susan visibly swallowed, lips parted but no words slipping through. It had been a rhetorical type of question, anyway. "That we were trespassing?" Tracee snorted. "Then shall I tell them we just wanted our money back because we were uncomfortable being in a hotel that had  _three_  deaths in the span of one month. Didn't want to stay another day, so yes, we went looking for the owner. And when the owner found us, looking for her, she freaked out without listening to a very logical explanation. Just a bit suspicious, yes? I'm sure the police will think so with a little more embellishment."

"I-I… You…" Susan couldn't form a proper sentence. "Those were-were suicides and an accident. Th-They wouldn't believe you!"

"Perhaps," Tracee said with a careless shrug. "But the seeds would certainly be planted. You'd be a person of interest. You'd be in the news. You'd be marked as a woman who snapped. Now, do you really want to go through all that? To put your family through all that? All because you made the mistake of turning away the only help you have? Not a very bright decision. Especially for a single mother."

"Why would you…? What do you want from me?"

"What we want is to  _save_  you, and we can't do that if we're not here," Tracee stated.

"Save me…? From what?" Susan asked.

She seemed a little more amenable, so it wasn't a surprise when Tracee lowered her arms and stepped away from her. Susan was still tense, but she didn't make a move to flee. "There is something lurking the halls of this hotel and killing people who have anything to do with the sell. Our job is to prevent more deaths." Susan opened her mouth, eyebrows scrunching together. "We do not have time to explain or convince you. Just answer our questions, we'll deal with the threat, and then leave. So you have a decision to make. Will you risk your family further or will you let us save you?"

Dean's eyebrow jumped. He didn't know why, but something about Tracee's words nagged at his brain. Hell, the entire intimidation tactic had probably been uncalled for, but she had done it anyway. It was almost like… she was being  _impatient_. Tracee loved a good mystery. She enjoyed finding clues and putting the pieces of the puzzle together. Motivations. Methods. Theories. She loved everything about a good mystery, including the time it took to sift through information. But now, her actions were too quick. Why? Before, it had just been a passing comment in his head, but now there was no doubt. Something definitely had her on edge.

Tracee suddenly twitched, looking as though her shoulder had moved involuntarily. She sharply turned, eyes glaring at the open door. Dean followed her gaze, line of sight settling on a little girl who stood just beyond the threshold into the room. Her blonde hair was tightly curled and she wore uniform like clothes, red cardigan and a navy blue dress, very similar to that other girl's clothes. What her name—Tyler? So this one must have been Maggie, the sister. And what a compromising situation she had walked into. If Dean had walked in on a scene like this, he would have assumed the worst. Who knows what a child would come up with?

"Hey, it's okay," Sam cooed towards the girl. "We're not here to hurt your mom or your family. We were just talking." The little girl didn't spare him a glance. She, instead, focused her dark eyes on Tracee.

"That's not my daughter," Susan spoke up. Out of the corner of Dean's eye, he noticed that the older woman moved to Tracee's side. "I don't know who that is…"

"This isn't Maggie, your other daughter?" Dean questioned.

"Maggie's  _imaginary_ …! I only have one daughter."

"Oh…"

It suddenly made sense why they hadn't seen hide or hair of this other 'daughter' until now. They were dealing with a ghost in the form of a child. "Now the mover's death makes sense," Tracee murmured. Dean got what she was talking about. In the long list of people that was in involved with selling the hotel, movers were the bottom of the barrel. Hell, movers weren't really involved in the sell at all. But a child wouldn't see it that way. "Right then, spirit… Are you able to tell us why you're here? Can you be reasoned with?" Tracee asked.

"Slayer," the ghost acknowledged. "I will not see my fun end. You will not interfere."

"I'm afraid that isn't an option," Tracee said, frowning.

"No! I will not be alone  _ever_  again!"

"This is ridiculous! Where are your parents?" Susan took several steps towards the ghost. Before Dean could advise her against it, the girl opened her mouth wide and let out a combination of a scream and a growl. Not like a Banshee, but enough to startle Susan into stopping in her tracks. Right in the path of the hovering furniture on the opposite side of the room. Two chairs and a small wooden table had been lifted from the floor. Dean's eyes widened in panic. " _Wha_ …?!" Susan saw it, too, but she was clearly frozen in place.

Dean ducked, dropping to the ground to avoid the table that came flying at him. Just before he hit the floor, he noticed that Sam had lurched forward and tackled Susan to the floor to avoid the heavy chair that had been aimed her way. Three simultaneous crashes echoed in his ears, followed by the clatter of broken wood. Dean looked up towards the door to see that the spirit had vanished. He then shifted his attention on his brother. Sam and Susan were okay. Finally, he looked Tracee's way. The Slayer had positioned herself in front of Rose, shielding her from the chair that had soared towards her. Her back was hunched over, and the chair laid broken on the floor.

Immediately, Dean stood up from the floor and headed over to her. "Trace, you alright?" he asked. Yes, he knew she could pretty much handle anything, but any other time, she would have just caught it, maybe swat it aside like it was a mere fly. Hm. Maybe not swat at it. The resulting trajectory might have hit someone else. The Slayer winced, straightening her back before turning to face him. She nodded once to answer.

"Are you okay?" Sam helped Susan stand, drawing Dean's attention. The older woman was visibly trembling. Her rapid blinking probably held back tears.

"I-I think so," Susan whispered. "Wh-What was that? How did-?"

"That was a spirit," Tracee interrupted. "As I said before, I don't have time to convince you about the things we encounter. All you need to know is that your family is in danger as long as the spirit is around. Answer our questions and let us save you all." Susan, still pretty shaken from what transpired, pressed her lips together. A tear managed to slip out of her eye. After a few quiet seconds, the woman nodded her head. "Alright… so when did your mother have this debilitating stroke?"

"A-A month ago," she replied.

"Just when the killing started," Sam said. "And when did Tyler start talking about Maggie."

"A month ago." Susan wrapped her arms around herself. "I just thought… I thought she was coping with what happened to her grandma. Oh, God…"

"So the hoodoo was to keep Maggie out, and after the stroke, dear ol' granny couldn't keep the magic going anymore," Dean summarized.

"I need a drink," Susan commented with a shake of her head.

"Not right now," Tracee told her. "That little girl said that she will not be alone anymore. That's not a good thing. From the way she spoke, she's finished trying to stop the sell."

"That's… good, though, right?" Susan asked.

"No… She's become desperate, and that might have something to do with my presence," Tracee replied. "She is a child, and when a child doesn't want to be alone, who do they turn to?"

"Tyler…!" Sam exclaimed. He then sharply turned towards Susan. "Where's Tyler?"

"Oh, God…!" she repeated, looking about ready to bolt.

"We need to focus, Suzanne!" Tracee snapped before the mother could begin a frantic search for her daughter. She, of course, ignored the Sam's correction of the name. "Do you know about a child that might have died around here? Maybe actually in the hotel? We need a significant place because more than likely, the spirit will try to recreate her death." Another 'Oh, God!' sprang from Susan's lips as the gravity of the situation set in.

"Listen, sister—this is really important!" Dean insisted. "You need to think hard. Any little girl that might have passed away—think!" Susan opened and closed her mouth as her eyes darted side to side as though she was trying hard to remember something.

"O-Oh… my mom! My mom had a sister named Margaret!" she gasped. "She rarely spoke about her, but her sister died here when she was little! In… in the pool—she  _drowned_!" Her eyes grew wide in shock and fear. The blood drained from her face, realizing what that meant. "Oh, my God!"

Apparently, that was too much. Susan turned and ran from the room, calling out for her daughter. Having no choice, the three ran after her. They raced through the hotel, following the owner out back to an abandoned garden. There was a walkway that led directly to the second floor of the indoor pool. They reached a door and peered in through the glass. By herself, Tyler stood on the other side of the railing, holding on and overlooking the pool down below. Both Dean and Sam began banging on the glass, trying to break through. The damn thing was normal glass, though. Frustratingly, it was Plexiglas—shatter resistant. That didn't stop them from trying. Susan shouted Tyler's name, causing the girl to turn. Dean could barely hear the girl call back to her mom from this side, but suddenly she dropped from the edge. The scream had almost been crystal clear.

"Move!" Tracee hissed. Right. They had their own portable battering ram. Immediately, Dean stepped away from the door, and Sam did the same, pulling Susan back as well. She gave them all questioning, fearful looks, lips parted in protest. The words never came as they watched Tracee lift her foot and slammed it against the wooden frame where the lock was. Both doors sprang wide open under the force of the impact. Sam wasted no time in going through and leaping from the edge. Dean and Tracee followed, but halted at the railing, as did Susan. Sam swam towards Tyler's floating body, and for a heart stopping moment, Dean thought they had been too late. But it took more than a few seconds to drown. "She's …" At his side, Tracee gripped the railing. Then suddenly, she took off down the hallway.

"Trace…?!" Dean called after her.

"Stay with Suzanne!" she yelled back. Translation: Don't let Susan butt in and do something reckless. Dean watched her go further down until she found a spot where she could also vault over the railing. Instead of landing in the pool, though, her feet touched down on the edge of the pool. Dean quickly looked back towards where Sam was. His brother had made it to Tyler and had both arms wrapped around her. But they hadn't lifted their heads from the water yet. The reason for that was because Maggie was forcibly keeping Sam's head down. Although, his legs were kicking wildly, there wasn't much else he could do with Tyler in his arms. Damn it. Why hadn't they stopped for weapons? "Hey!" Tracee made it closer to where the three were. Maggie snapped her head in her direction. "If you make me come in there, you're going to wish I had found and burned your bones!"

"Your idle threats are meaningless, Slayer," Maggie said. "I told you not to interfere, so now I'll take both of them. We'll be together forever… and ever."

"Not bloody likely!" Tracee took a step forward, but then halted. She sharply lifted her head, something seemingly catching her attention. It had caught Maggie's attention, too, because she also looked upwards. Without warning, the ghost vanished from sight, allowing Sam to break free of the water. With a loud gasp, he stood up in the shallow end of the pool. Tyler had not took a breath, though. "Samuel, over here!" Tracee instructed.

"Tyler!" Susan shouted, and then hurriedly began making her way towards a flight of stairs that lead down. Dean quickly followed, wondering why the coast had become clear. By the time, they had made it down the stairs, Sam had lowered Tyler's body on the floor. Susan whimpered, dropping down next to the girl's unmoving form. Tracee maneuvered Tyler, and then began performing CPR. She had mentioned in passing that she had taken a class in college, so her actions weren't surprising. On the edge of his seat, Dean watched Tracee repeat the process several times. Then finally, Tyler coughed and spit out water. "Oh! Thank God! Thank God!" Susan hugged her daughter tightly, nearly chanting.

"Good job, you two," Dean sighed in relief, sharing looks with Sam and Tracee. "But what happened? Where'd Maggie go?"

"A voice called her," Tracee murmured. "And now she's just… gone."

 

0-0

 

The voice, they had realized sometime later, had belonged to Rose. After leaving the pool, they had discovered that the old woman had died. Tracee confirmed that she no longer sensed anything supernatural at the hotel anymore. She had believed that the two sisters had been reunited and had maybe passed on, which meant the job had ended. Susan had been most grateful by their efforts, despite her mother's 'stroke,' and had even given hugs to the three of them before she and her daughter had left via taxi.

Dean had joked that Sam's hug had been the longest and he could have gotten some MILF action if he had wanted. There had been no reaction. Dean had wanted to break the somber mood, and so he had taken it a step further and had something along the lines of 'What's the point of saving people if you can't get a little nookie?' Just to get a rise. Again, Tracee, had not reacted with something like 'He gets plenty of nookie.' Gross, but at least it would have meant things were back to normal. When she hadn't, Dean decided to turn to the last resort. Food.

That was reason they were sitting in a diner, waiting for meals to arrive. They were in a booth, near the back. Sam and Tracee sat on one side while Dean sat opposite of them, back facing the door. Tracee hadn't said much of anything yet, choosing to merely stare out of the window. Sam must have picked up her mood, too, because he remained tight-lipped and sat closer to the edge of the booth when he normally would have sat as close as he could to his girlfriend. Dean internally sighed, wondering when they would stop the silent treatment.

Sam suddenly cleared his throat, tearing his gaze away from the glass of water in front of him. He glanced at Dean before his eyes shifted to Tracee. Her gaze hadn't wavered from the rain spattered window. "So… I was thinking we could-" He cleared his throat again. "-maybe go out tonight? Dancing?"

"No," Tracee replied. "I'm not in the mood." Dean felt himself sharing the grimace on his brother's face. Her tone had been like shards of ice. So if Sam hadn't know he had been put in the doghouse before, he definitely knew now. "I'd rather talk about what transpired last night." Finally, her line of sight moved from the window as she turned her head to face Sam. "What  _exactly_  are you expecting to happen, Sam? Have you really become so weak-minded to the point where you think being  _evil_  is in your destiny?" Firmly put on the spot, Sam gaped liked a fish. At his lack of response, Tracee crossed her arms over her chest. "And if you can't remember, because of that mindset, you tried to make Dean promise to  _kill_  you if you do become evil."

Dean winced. Tracee was clearly not playing games. She obviously hadn't taken the alcohol as an excuse. Whether Sam remembered or not was not the issue. The issue had to do with what he had said and done while he had been drunk. To his credit, Sam looked ashamed by his previous behavior. He dipped his head, frowning. Dean pursed his lips, realizing that his brother had remembered since he hadn't tried to dispute it. Either that or he had had thoughts like that while completely sober. And if that was the case, Dean could understand Tracee's frustration. How could Sam be so stupid? It wasn't like good versus evil was a goddamn switch anyone could flip.

"I don't know…" Sam murmured, shrugging.

"Just…" Tracee sighed lightly. "I just need to know why it's become so much for you that you would be okay with dying—with  _Dean_  killing you."

For a long moment, Sam didn't speak again. Then he opened his mouth and let it all out. "It's just… sometimes, I feel like I don't have a choice in anything. I mean, dad said one thing and absolutely believed in it to the point of telling Dean that… that I didn't matter. That when it came down to it, I was expendable because I could be the one to doom the world. Then Missouri comes along and tells me something completely opposite of that. That… That I'm supposed to be a part of the Slayer line through blood and spirit. That I'm supposed to be  _good_. That maybe I can save the world." Sam was rambling, but the words gushed forward, and it didn't seem like it would let up. "But I-I don't know what to believe. I  _want_  to be good, but… dad's in my head, too. What if he was right to tell Dean that? What if I do become what dad thought?"

The confession came as a shock. Judging from the surprise on Tracee's face, he hadn't mentioned that to her previously either. Sam's  _elephant_  had been a conflict between two things. One he wanted to believe in. Being good. Being a Champion. That was what he explicitly wanted. But the other—turning evil, being used as a tool for evil—he equally thought it could happen. He dreaded it and didn't want it, but on some level he must have thought it was possible. His brother was an idiot. This was why believing in destiny was stupid. But even Dean could see that it wasn't just that Sam believed. Even when they had slugged it out more often than not, he was obviously still shaped by John Winchester and remained one of the biggest influences.

"Samuel," Tracee began. Her shoulders had become noticeably less tense. Sam lifted his head. "I think I understand…" Her brow furrowed, and for a moment she became silent. Then she shifted closer to her boyfriend. Dean couldn't see it, but he assumed Tracee had taken Sam's hand in hers. "You should have told me this is how you felt. I shouldn't have had to find out while you were drunk."

"I know," he said. "I know—I'm sorry."

"Still, it's… out in the open now, so now we can deal with it," Tracee continued. "You say that you don't know what to believe in, but it's like there's only two options—being evil or being a Champion. How about you believe in me? You might be my bespoke Champion, but that doesn't mean I won't try my hardest to save you as well. And if that means saving you from being evil, then so be it." Sam visibly swallowed. Face flushed, he showed how much her words had affected him. Tracee breathed through her nose before leaning forward. Her forehead lightly touched his. For a moment, they stayed that way, shutting their eyes and forgetting the rest of the world. Like before, in Oregon, Dean thought he would feel awkward, watching their intimate act, but he didn't. Hell, he kinda understood why Cassie thought they were  _cute_. He wouldn't go mentioning it out loud, though. No way.

"Tracee…" Sam opened his eyes. He looked like he had more to say, but decided not to. Tracee reared back and opened her own eyes.

"Not just me," she stated with a shake of her head. "How about you believe in your brother? He says he's going to protect you."

"And I meant it. As long as I'm breathing," Dean agreed. They both turned to look at him, almost appearing that they had forgotten he had been there the whole time. Tracee smiled gratefully, and Sam let a tiny smile cross his face, too. "Just because I'm not always spouting the mushy stuff doesn't mean I don't feel it, Sammy."

"Thanks, Dean," Sam replied. "I really appreciate it."

"Then how about you start acting like it, huh?" Dean playfully retorted. He had been teasing, but a part of him had been serious, too. Sam pressed his lips together, giving a slight nod. Maybe he had picked up on the seriousness note. Tracee lifted her hand, fingers lightly gripping the front of Sam's shirt to draw his attention again.

"And most importantly, how about you believe in  _yourself_?" she said. "Somewhere along the way, you seemed to have forgotten about that. You, Samuel Winchester, aren't someone or something's plaything. You can adapt and become a better version of yourself, but no  _destiny_ —whether it be demonic or divine—can change the core of you."

"God, Tracee, I-" Sam cut himself off by leaning forward. He pressed his lips against hers. Apparently, he had been so overcome with emotion that he couldn't help but to kiss her. Hard. This time, Dean did turn his gaze away because more than likely, with Tracee's reciprocation, they wouldn't come up for air for a while. Gross. He could hear the smacking. Dean cleared his throat, hoping that it would deter them. Fortunately, the sounds of their kissing halted, so he turned back. He supposed this meant that they would go back to normal. "I'm so glad I met you," Sam said in a low voice. Dean almost hadn't caught it. Tracee smiled nodding her head in agreement.

"Are you good now?" she asked.

"Real good," Sam answered. He tilted his head and rubbed his thumbs against her cheeks. A chaste kiss was given. Dean cleared his throat again before it could turn into something more. Sam dropped his hands, grinning sheepishly as he faced forward in his seat. Tracee did the same, but her grin was smug. "And, hey, Dean… I'm sorry for trying to make you promise something like that. And thanks for being so against it."

"No problem… bitch."

"Jerk," Sam chuckled.

"Dorks," Tracee said with a shake of her head and a smile on her lips.

Well, back to business as usual.

 

0-0


	35. Shift & Trouble

Tracee discretely shifted her weight from foot to foot as she listened to their 'witness.' The woman was merely an employee, though, who hadn't actually seen anything. She seemed more intent on getting into Dean's pants than actually giving her statement. Asking questions about their job, which she obviously didn't truly care about, and smiling prettily whenever Dean spoke. He, of course, was eating it up and flirting back. Quite annoying, actually. Especially since the woman hadn't so much as glanced at Tracee since the introductions. However, she dutifully remained at his side, pen and notepad in hand, writing down notes.

Her role was an assistant this time around. Impersonations were all well and good to get the job done, but Tracee had made it clear that she would not be participating in them. She did not have fake credentials, and she would continue refusing them being made for her. There was a distinct line drawn at federal offenses. She would not cross it no matter how dire the situation. So when the cases they worked needed impersonations, she normally took roles that did not require credentials as long as she was in the company of the other two.

For this particular case, Dean and Sam used their FBI credentials in order to question employees at a local jeweler. It was quite astonishing how gullible people were. Their badges were literally signed Han Solo and Jack Bauer, and yet people were so quick to believe they were really with the FBI. She supposed it made their work easier, but over the course of traveling with them, Tracee had become aware of just how ridiculous people could be.

Soft giggling brought Tracee back out of her thoughts. She focused down on the paper, realizing she had been tallying the number of times this woman had flipped her hair instead of anything helpful. Frowning, she slipped her notepad into the long coat she wore. The slight movement on her part caused the woman to glance her way before politely excusing herself to retrieve something from the back of the store. Tracee picked up the subtle way her expression showed she had wanted to speak to Dean alone. Jo had given her a similar look awhile back. As she walked away, Dean made an obvious show of examining the way she moved. "Really…?" Tracee rolled her eyes.

"Like you don't ogle Sam all the time," Dean muttered sarcastically. Well, she really couldn't argue with that, could she? "Why don't you head over to him—see what he's working with?"

"Fine," Tracee replied with a shrug. "Nothing important happening over here anyway." She turned, almost missing the face Dean made. Smirking, she made her way to the other side of the store. Sam had been idly staring inside a glass case, waiting for another employee to return for more questioning. Perhaps he would have better luck with management. The guy was the real witness, after all. Tracee stopped at his side, giving a slight nudge to his arm. Like Dean, he wore a dark suit with a long coat. She, herself, wore a pin-striped black suit with heels. Sam had even slicked his hair back a bit, which was pretty sexy. Visually, they all looked the part of FBI agents. So, really, the presentation was key for the impersonations.

"Hey," Sam greeted with a small smile. "You get anything useful?"

"From Dean's next one night stand? No—I'm pretty sure she's just waiting for the chance to pass along the digits," Tracee answered. Sam chuckled lightly. This particular case dealt with robbery, murder, and suicide. The article Sam had come across had said a woman had stolen hundreds of thousands worth of jewelry, had killed a fellow employee, had hidden the loot, and then had gone home to do herself in. It had been quite the story, and a month before that, same thing had happened at a nearby bank. Robbery, murder, and suicide. The two instances had been enough for the three of them to come to Milwaukee, Wisconsin. So far, they hadn't found anything solid.

"What about a residue?" Sam asked.

"No, I don't sense anything either," Tracee stated in a low voice. "We'll have to keep asking questions for this." Sam opened his mouth to say something else, but the store's manager had finally come back out to talk. In his hands, he held a flat box. The man moved behind the counter as he began to speak about the latest robbery gone horribly wrong and how he couldn't believe this head buyer could do something so out of character. The manager had heard the night watchman die over the phone. It had been pretty upsetting for him. Even now, as he recalled the events, the man looked disturbed. Mostly baffled. "You said shot him in the face," Tracee said. "Does that mean you looked at the security footage before the police arrived?"

"No, actually, it's what they told me," he said. "They also told me how she killed herself in her bathtub."

"So you never saw the security footage yourself then?" Sam inquired as Dean walked over. He held up a card, showing that he had, indeed, gotten the digits. The smug look hadn't been contained. Snorting to herself, Tracee rolled her eyes while the older Winchester grinned.

"Well, the police—they took all the tapes first thing," the manager stated.

"Yeah, of course they did," Dean groused. "I think we've gotten everything we need right now, but we'll be in touch." The manager nodded his head. Dean gestured for the door, and then the three of them walked away from the counter. They had left the jewelry store with pretty much what they had already known from newspaper articles. Perhaps the next guy would provide bigger insight. He had actually been there for it, and had survived the vicious beating at the bank a month ago. Tracee suspected that since it had been the first incident, the assailant had been sloppy, learning to leave no witnesses the second time around.

They drove for a little while with Sam giving the directions to their next destination. Dean chose to grumble, not loud enough to actually make out words, but it was pretty clear that he was annoyed with the situation. It had been the second time they had not been able to retrieve anything because the local authorities had already cleaned house. The Impala eventually came to a stop outside a small residence. "325—this is it," Sam stated. Dean put the car in park, sighing heavily as he did.

"Frickin' cops," he griped.

"They were just doing their job," Sam remarked before pushing open his door, and then climbing out. Per usual, he then moved to open the back door on his side to let Tracee out. She took his hand, trying hard not to stumble because of the black pumps she wore. She would rather be wearing her wedge heels. They were a lot more comfortable and stable. However, they hadn't fit the FBI look, or so Dean told her.

"No, they're doing  _our_  job," Dean retorted, nearly slamming his door. "Only, they just don't know it, so they suck at it."

"At least someone's getting paid for it," Tracee teased. "Welcome to America."

" _Tch_ … Talk to me about this bank," Dean said. He joined them on the other side of the Impala, and together they walked towards the front porch. As Dean had only agreed to coming to Wisconsin because of the strange suicides, he hadn't really paid attention to the information collected so far. So Sam reiterated the information as they moved. "And this guy, Resnick, was the security guard on duty?"

"Yeah—Ronald Resnick—he was actually beaten unconscious by the teller who heisted the place," Sam stated. Dean winced.

"The article I found barely mentioned his side of the story. Only that the police deems him as a trauma case, so this might be just what we need," Tracee mentioned. Standing between the two, she lifted her hand to knock on the screen door. The actual front door of the house had been wide open. After no response to the knocking, Sam called out to the first victim because obviously he was home. A floodlight suddenly switched on, temporarily blinding them all. Tracee shielded her eyes from the bright and squinted, trying to see beyond the light. It only took a few seconds to see that the light had been recently installed. Huh. She turned away, blinking back the spots. The trauma part of the article was beginning to make sense.

A man appeared in a hallway, staring back at them. His entire body seemed to be wary of their presence. The man was young—little bit on the heavy side—with dark disheveled curly hair that fell to his shoulders. He slowly approached his front door, eyes narrowing even further. "FBI, Mr. Resnick," Sam said. The man pursed his lips, and then demanded to see their credentials. In unison, the brothers took out the fake badges and pressed them against the screen door. He leaned forward, scrutinizing. Apparently, he saw nothing wrong with them because he stood up straight again, telling them that he had already given his statement.

"Your statement raised some heads, sir," Tracee spoke, forcing her father's accent. "We require… a bit of clarification." The man's eyes grew wide, and suddenly his wariness was swept away by enthusiasm.

"You're Interpol? Interpol is involved with this?" he questioned.

"I am merely assisting the FBI in their ongoing investigation," Tracee said, neither confirming nor denying that whole Interpol bit. If this Ronald Resnick wanted to believe it and provide substantial information because of it, then by all means. "Will you allow us a few minutes of your time?"

"Yes…! Yes, come in," Ronald urged, opening his screen door. The three filed into the house, following the man further into his home. "Oh, man, I never thought Interpol would get involved. See, none of the cops ever called me back… not after I told them what was really going on." The man led them to a living room. The walls were adorned with various articles and pictures, all seemingly relating to the extraterrestrial. Yes, the article's use of the word trauma was definitely clear now. "They all thought I was  _crazy_."

"Can't imagine why," Tracee said under her breath, eyes darting around. This was the stereotypical lair of a person who might believe the moon landing was faked. If the interviews had been done here, no wonder the police, and journalists, failed to take this man seriously.

"First off, Juan Morales never robbed the Milwaukee National Trust, okay? That, I guarantee," Ronald continued, having not have heard the comment. He turned to them, hands moving frantically as he spoke. "See, me and Juan were friends. He used to come back to the bank on my night shifts, and we'd play cards."

"So  _you_  let him into the bank that night.  _After_  hours," Sam inquired.

"Does that not go against policy, sir?" Tracee asked.

"It…" Ronald sighed lightly. "We'd been employees with that bank for years. There were… a few things that were allowed because of that." Tracee hummed, but chose not to comment. "But the thing I let into the bank… wasn't Juan. I mean, it had his face, but it  _wasn't_  his face." He turned a bit, picking up something from a nearby table. "Every detail was perfect, but  _too_  perfect, you know? Like if a doll maker made it. Like-Like I was talking to a big Juan doll." Internally, Tracee grimaced. The more he spoke, the more it seemed like all the lights weren't all on upstairs.

"A Juan doll?" Sam repeated, subtly sardonic.

"Look, this wasn't the only time this happened, okay?" Ronald insisted. The thing in his hand was a file, and he chose to hand it off to Sam. "There was this jewelry store, too, and the cops, and-and-and you guys—I mean, you just won't see it." Tracee peered over at the open file. Dean, too, leaned over to get a good look. She felt her eyebrow rise. It appeared similar to a standard hunter's file. "Both crimes were pulled by the same thing."

"And what's that Mr. Resnick?" Sam questioned, eyes still scanning over the contents of the file. Ronald leaned forward, picking up a magazine. He showed them the cover, and tapped the picture several times. Tracee furrowed her brow, recognizing the image even without the large words printed on the front. The creature on the cover happened to belong to one of her father's favorite shows. She, herself, had only seen a few episodes in passing. Surely, Ronald was not referring to-

"Chinese have been working on them for years," Ronald said. Oh, God, he was. "And the Russians before that. Part man, part machine. Like the  _Terminator_ , but the kind that can change itself-" He excitedly pointed to his face. "-make itself look like other people."

"Like the one from  _T2_ ," Dean pointed out.

"Exactly…!" Ronald cheered. Tracee turned Dean's way, both eyebrows raised. She hoped he understood that his encouragement of such antics was not okay. The grin on his face instantly dropped. Maybe Sam had given him the same disapproving look. "See? So not just a robot! More of a-a-a-a-" Tracee turned her attention back to the overzealous man, watching him struggle for a word. "-a mandroid." If Tracee had any less control, she would have reached up and rubbed her temple in disbelief. This poor fool. Out of all the things he had collected, that had been the term he had gone for.

"A  _mandroid_ …?"

This time, Sam had not be able to hide just how unimpressed he was. Dean, noticing his brother's growing incredulity, quickly asked Ronald what proof he had to make him believe such things. The man stared blankly for a moment, not exactly giving the impression of a sane mind, before a grin crept on his face. Still not giving that impression. He wiggled a finger at them, and then moved and gestured for the three of them to sit on his couch. Slowly, the three took a seat. With Dean and Sam on either side of her, Tracee sat in the middle. She crossed one leg over the other and folded her arms over her chest. They watched Ronald as he fumbled with several video tapes before finding the one he wanted. He quickly inserted the tape into a VHS player.

"See, I made copies of all the security tapes," Ronald explained. "I knew once the cops got them, they'd be buried." He turned on his television and immediately became fast forwarding. "Here. Now watch," he instructed, pausing. He then rewound the grayscale footage, showing a man that was most likely Juan Morales. Adamantly, he told them to keep watching, clearly growing more and more excited about the scene. "See? Look! There it is!" He paused the tape again. The frozen image clearly showed the distinctive shine of the man's eyes. "You see? He's got the laser eyes!"

Lips parting in surprise, Tracee examined the screen more closely. Despite his disorganized way of thinking, Ronald Resnick had discovered a supernatural being. Shapeshifter. It explained the precise motives of the murder-suicide-robberies. Suicides would mark the cases as closed by the local authorities, so this shifter could rinse and repeat to its heart's content, and then move on with its hidden stash when the well dried up. Clever, and much too dangerous to allow those actions to continue.

Tracee, herself, hadn't encountered one before—and if she had, she had no way of knowing—but she immediately recalled what Dean and Sam had shared with her. A shapeshifter in St. Louis had framed Dean for a most heinous crime. Despite how much time had passed, and the end result, that job still followed them a like shadow. And now, it seemed as though they were going up against another.

"Cops said it was some kinda reflected light—some kinda  _camera flare_ ," Ronald continued, staring proudly at his proof. "Kay—ain't no damn camera flare! They say I'm a post-trauma case. So what?" He grabbed another article, and the proceeded to stick it to the wall. "Bank goes and fires me? It don't matter! The mandroid is still out there!" He faced them again, expression resolute. "If the law won't hunt this thing down, I'll do it myself." Shit. That was not what they needed. Dean complained about cops doing their job without knowing, but having someone like this attempt to do it would be a hell of a lot worse. Someone like Ronald Resnick would do more harm than good with his current mindset.

"And how, pray tell, are you to locate this… mandroid?" Tracee asked. The man may have stumbled into something he had no idea about, but she couldn't deny that he had identified this murderous creature for them. Perhaps, he had done more. It wouldn't hurt to find out.

"Right, so these robberies are actually grouped together," Ronald replied, turning to point out the map he had posted to the wall. There were two places circled. "So I figure, the mandroid is holed up somewhere in the middle—underground, maybe. I don't know. M-Ma-Maybe that's where it recharges its m-m-mandroid batteries."

Tracee shut her eyes. The urge to rub her temple was getting a bit harder to control. The way this man swerved from adequate deductions to off the wall bullshit was absurd and made her head spin. Beside her, Sam released a heavy sigh. "Okay," he began. Tracee, however, could hear just how displeased he had become. "I want you to listen very carefully." He stood up, prompting Tracee and Dean to stand as well. "Cuz I'm about to tell you the God's honest truth—about all of this." Of course, Sam also realized what the repercussions of this guy's involvement could potentially be. Ronald, so unaware, nodded readily as he waited for the  _honest truth_. "There's no such thing as mandroids."

"It's a bloody ridiculous notion," Tracee stated even as the slight grin dropped from Ronald's face.

"There's nothing evil or inhuman going on out there," Sam continued. "It's just people. Nothing else—you understand?" Ronald's eyes darted back and forth between them, mouth opening and closing. He visibly swallowed hard and shifted uneasily under the combined unsympathetic stares. Still, he tried to remind them of the 'laser eyes.' "Just a camera flare, Mr. Resnick," Sam spoke over him before the man could get a full sentence out.

"You would do well to remember that logic can explain everything," Tracee said. "Stop these idle sci-fi fantasies. Your friend snapped under pressure and lashed out. That is the only viable explanation for this tragedy."

"We know you don't want to believe it, but your friend, Juan, robbed the bank, and that's it," Sam finished, remaining firm. Ronald's breath caught in this throat, but he managed to blurt out a demand to get out of his house. Her lover did not flinch, and his gaze never wavered. "Sure," he said. "But first things first…" Sam took a step forward, and Tracee watched as he completely dominated Ronald with his words and stature alone. Not manipulation. Not charm. Just complete 'listen to me and do as I say.'  _Guh_. She might have licked her lips and wished that she could trade places with Ronald for just a moment.

Presentation, indeed.

 

0-0

 

"Man, that has got to be the kicker, straight up," Dean commented before taking a gulp of his canned beer. Sam didn't bother to glance his way as he walked to the opposite side of their motel room. It had been an hour after leaving the residence of Ronald Resnick. The three of them had changed out of their FBI gear and set up. Dean stood near the wall of relevant data. Tracee sat down on the edge of one of the queen-sized beds, legs folded with her handbook in her lap. Sam made it to the television set and popped the tape into the player. "I mean, you told that poor son of a bitch to-" Dean paused. "-What did you say?  _Remand_  the tapes that he copied?" Sam chose not to respond as he grabbed the remote and sat down in a chair near the television. Mostly because that had not been how the word remand had been used. " _Classified evidence of an ongoing investigation_? That's messed up."

"I thought it was quite necessary," Tracee mentioned.

"You were part of the kicker, Trace," Dean stated. "I mean, the way the two of you tagged-team him—way to kick a man while he's down."

"What? Are you pissed at us or something?" Sam questioned, no longer ignoring his brother's comments. He turned to look at Dean, who had sat down at the table. The laptop and dad's journal had been joined by the map of the town's sewer system and the aluminum can.

"No, I just think it's a little creepy how good of a fed you are," Dean said. Sam turned back around, eyes rolling before concentrating on the television screen. "Trace, I could understand. I mean, she grew up with a stuffy English bastard-"

" _Oi_ …!"

"-But you totally  _embodied_  the overbearing fed persona," Dean continued, ignoring the indignant huff from Tracee. "I mean, come on, we could have, at least, thrown the guy a bone. He did some pretty good legwork here."

"A  _bone_ …?" Tracee repeated, nearly shrieking. "That guy found the word android too inconceivable, but mandroid— _shyeah_ , let's go with  _that_." Sam heard the book in her lap snap shut, prompting him to look her way. She set the handbook aside and stood up. "Yes, Harry gave us what we're looking for, and perhaps credit is due, but throwing a guy like that a bone would have gotten him killed, Dean. His heart's in the right place, but not his mind. Even you must realize how foolish he was. He would have rushed headlong into danger without thinking clearly. So it was better to shut him down before he became fully committed to take on something he couldn't even imagine."

"Yeah, I guess," Dean muttered. "But I still liked the guy…"

Sam found himself nodding to his girlfriend's logic. He couldn't have said it better himself. Tracee made her way to the refrigerator, and he watched as she retrieved a bottle of flavored carbonated water. She took a long drink before putting the bottle back into the refrigerator. Honestly, he had been harsh with Ronald, but she had understood immediately, and had even backed him up. Not for the first time, Sam realized how supportive his girlfriend truly was. He was lucky to have met her. Lucky, he had thought numerous times, but it hadn't actually been luck. It had been fate… or something close to it. Somewhere along the way, he had stopped thinking about what had led them to Ashland.

Over the period of time they had known her, it hadn't really seemed to matter anymore. But thinking back on it now, Sam had had visions about her. Visions completely different from the norm. His normal visions were in connection to the Demon. But those set of visions had clearly come from a different source. Maybe it had been the  _Powers That Be_  that had pushed those visions on him so that he—they—could meet Tracee. Missouri had said they guided things along, after all. Honestly, it still didn't matter, but Sam couldn't help but wonder where he would be had he not gotten those visions. He shook his head a bit.

Sam had already told himself not to think of 'what ifs.' Whether it had been a coincidence or not, the fact that a Slayer and her Champions had come together had been a good thing, and they were all better for it. At least, that was what he had come to think. As of now, he was perfectly content to how things were. Even if the majority of the world considered them crazy for their lifestyle, as long as it was the three of them, he could carry on. And right now, they had a job to do.

Pursing his lips, Sam returned his attention to the television screen. The footage showed the bank that had been robbed with Ron letting in the Juan Morales look alike. Quickly, Sam paused the footage just as the eyes shined. He scoffed lightly. "Shapeshifter," he muttered. "Just like back in St. Louis. Same retinal reaction to video."

"Eyes flare at the camera," Dean translated. "I hate those frickin' things."

"You think I don't?" Sam asked sarcastically.

"Yeah, well, one didn't turn into you and frame you for murder," Dean retorted.

"Yes, this is definitely not a preferable type job," Tracee spoke up. Sam turned towards her to see that she now stood at Dean's side, yet her narrowed eyes were focused on the screen. "I'm not able to sense the presence of a shapeshifter." Dean lifted his gaze to her, expression showing the surprise Sam felt. "The handbook says that shapeshifters change their very nature, hiding their supernatural core within the bodies they copy. I suppose it's the same concept as demons that can possess human bodies."

"Damn, and here I was hoping it'd be easy pickings," Dean muttered in disappointment. Tracee merely shrugged, and then tilted her head forward, gesturing to what Dean had been working on. "All right, so we know they like to lair up underground—preferably the sewer. Ronald said all the robberies have been connected so far through the sewer main layout. Looks like he was right, and there's one more bank lined up on that same sewer main."

"So what's the plan?" Tracee asked, examining the map.

"Originally, I was thinking you could go in, point the shifter out, and then we follow the bastard home to pop him with a silver bullet," he admitted.

"Eloquent."

"Yup," Dean smirked up at Tracee, ignoring the sarcasm. "But since your Slayer senses aren't going to be tingling any time soon, guess we'll go with plan B. Sam and I will infiltrate the bank, probably as tech guys—anything to get us in so we can look at the security cams to see which employee has the  _laser_  eyes. While we're doing that, Trace, you're going to be scoping out for the lair."

"I have to go in the sewers?" Tracee made a face.

"Just in case the bank isn't where the shifter decides to strike again," Dean told her. "If Sam and I can't find it there, then at least we'll know where it's holed up at, and we can all wait until it shows up there. Besides, you're smaller than us and can fit into places we can't." Tracee clicked her tongue, not at all happy with it, but she nodded, anyway. This time around, it was a good plan. Split up to cover all basis. "Good, now that that's been hashed out-" He stood up with a clap of his hands. "I've got a date with  _Frannie_." The way his brother practically purred the name caused Sam to roll his eyes. Tracee also seemed put off by it, judging from the scoff. Dean paid no mind to the reactions, and was already slipping on his jacket. He drank the rest of his beer before slamming the empty can down. "So don't you kids wait up for me."

Dean gave an exaggerated wink—to which Sam rolled his eyes again—and then he made his exit with a wide grin on his face. Shaking his head, Sam shifted in his chair to face the television screen as he heard the door shut. Behind him, he heard Tracee make her way back over to the bed. Allowing himself to become completely distracted, Sam turned in his chair and watched his girlfriend. She seemed unaware as she sat down and opened her handbook. Her legs hung over the side, and her eyes darted across the pages. It was fascinating, watching her expression change as she dove deep into reading. The subtle quirk of her lips. The way she ran the tip of her finger against her cheek. Even the wrinkle of her brow. It was all a bit of a guilty pleasure, actually. Her slow, quiet movements were nice.

"Samuel," her sudden voicing of his name caused him to flinch. Sam cleared his throat, wondering just how long he had been staring. "Is silver the only thing that can kill a shapeshifter?" Tracee hadn't looked away from her book. She actually brought the pages a little closer to her face as though she needed to. "You'd think since they're so close to human, they would be more ways…"

"Well, when they change, they're actually regenerating, so any damage to their old bodies would be gone—stab wounds, gun shots, burns or something and they would just find a new form," Sam reasoned. Tracee hummed, and then nodded her head. For a moment, they sat in silence, and then Sam cleared his throat again. "Hey," he said, catching her attention. Her eyes glanced up from the words for a second before focusing completely on him. "I just wanted to say thank you… for backing me up with Ronald." Tracee shut her book and stood up from the bed. A pleasant smile made its way across her face as she walked forward.

"It needed to be done," she stated as she set her handbook on the table.

"You don't think I was too harsh? I mean, maybe Dean had a point?"

"No, you were right. That's why I supported your decision," Tracee stated, turning to face him. "In fact, perhaps you could have been a bit more  _forceful_  to really drive it home." Sam raised a brow, curious by the emphasis. "Besides, you were quite… sexy. How could I say no to that?" Her explanation came with a flirty smile, which caused Sam to flush. His girlfriend had strange preferences.

"You  _liked_  that?" he asked. Honestly, he had thought she would be a tiny bit weirded out. Like Dean had been. It had been an act, but apparently, it had been too good of an act. In a far corner of his mind, Sam thought maybe Tracee would have been distressed by that side of him—not turned on. He huffed out a laugh as his girlfriend sauntered over to him with a nod.

"It was the whole image of you," Tracee said. "I actually wanted to trade places with Harry."

" _Heh_... You're so weird, Tracee," Sam told her, grin lingering. She merely gave with a knowing smile as though to say 'You like it.' He pressed his lips together, forcing the grin back. He did like it. Sam stood up, suddenly getting a feel of Tracee's amorous antics. Dean wasn't here, anyway, so… he could give her what she wanted. "Well, I guess I can… recreate that for you, Ms. Noland." In the middle of his sentence, Sam changed the tone of his voice to match how he had spoken to Ronald. Her teeth clamped down on her lower lip. Taking a step forward, he towered over her. Tracee visibly swallowed as she kept her gaze locked with his. "Now, I want you to listen to me very carefully. You are in possession of classified evidence, which is a part of an ongoing investigation."

"And what evidence could that be, Special Agent Samuel Winchester?" Tracee questioned, looking up at him through her lashes, defiance and attraction swimming in her brown eyes. Instead of responding verbally, Sam reached up and tugged at the front of her shirt. She, in response, glanced down where his fingers were curled. Her lips parted and a soft breath left her as she looked back up. "… And if I refuse?"

"Resistance is futile, Ms. Noland." Sam yanked her forward. Not expecting it at all, Tracee collided with his body, hands barely lifting to brace herself against his chest. "I expect  _nothing_  but your full cooperation." For several seconds, she stared up at him, eyes wide. And then a grin stretched across her face.

"Oh, my God—you  _are_  good at this!" she nearly squealed. Sam snorted, the façade falling away. He wrapped both arms around her as he chuckled at her reaction. "No, don't break character!"

"You broke it first," he said.

" _You_  broke it first," she retorted, giggling.

"You did."

"No,  _you_  did."

As they spoke, their lips had gradually eased together until finally Sam could no longer resist pressing his mouth against hers. In between kisses, their shared laughter filled the room. Hands getting to anywhere he could reach, Sam moved slowly, guiding his girlfriend towards the bed. Tracee, having found the zipper to his hoodie jacket, carefully pulled it down. Her hands then busied themselves sliding the jacket off his shoulders. By the time they hit the bed, the laughter had stopped and panting sighs had taken its place.  _Mine_. The thought came, as it always did, like a whisper in his mind. Sam knew the reason for it now, and no longer tried to push it away. It wasn't all types of wrong. In fact, it was the complete opposite of wrong, and he couldn't wait for the day he would be permitted to say it aloud. For now, though, he would take the biting without words. Until she was ready, this was just fine. In the end, they never got back around to the roleplay.

But there would always be a next time.

 

0-0

 

Dean was bored out of his mind. He had thought this part of the job would be easy and over with quickly. But he and Sam had been playing  _spot the shifter_  for hours. Apparently, just the right angle was needed in order for the cameras to actually catch the retinal reaction. That shot of 'Juan Morales' had been lucky. More than once, he had wished he had gone with Tracee down into the sewer line. She had complained a lot this morning about her task, but it couldn't be as bad as just sitting here, watching screens all day. At least, down in the sewers, his body would be moving. Now, he just had to settle for occasionally spinning around in his chair, much to Sam's annoyance. Dean had half a mind to just go to the lobby and start shining his flashlight into people's eyes. Sure, he would be thought of as crazy, but at least the process would be faster than this.

Suddenly, Sam's phone started ringing. The noise broke the silence and the monotony of staring at screens all day. Sam patted himself down, searching for his cell phone. When he finally found it, his exhausted expression disappeared. He cleared his throat and answered his phone with a small smile on his face. Obviously, the caller was Tracee. "Hey," Sam greeted. "Hold on. Let me put you on speaker." He pushed a button, and then set his phone down on the desk. "Go ahead, Tracee. Did you find anything?"

" _Shyeah_ —skin, clothes, and loot." Her voice came through loud and clear. "I imagine the shifter was living there for quite some time before deciding to begin the string of robberies." There was a bit of rustling. "I've just come out of one of the longest showers of my life to get the smell out, so don't even think about hot water when you get back." Sam chuckled a bit, but Dean didn't think that had been a joke. "Speaking of which, when are you guys coming back? Did you find the shapeshifter?"

" _Uh_ , not yet," Sam stated. "It's a lot more time-consuming than we planned. There's only six cameras and not a lot of the employees are on them."

"It's almost closing time," Tracee muttered. "Can you use those disguises to question the employees after hours, and find a way to use a flashlight on their eyes?"

"I don't think so," Dean admitted. "We'll just make something up and come back to tomorrow if we can't pick out the shifter tonight." Tracee gave a reserved hum. "So, hey, what happened with the stash?"

"… Huh?"

"Don't you 'huh' me. What'd you do with the stash, Trace?" There were several seconds of silence. "Trace…!" Dean said her name in the best scandalized voice he could. He could practically hear the eye roll.

"What? You're shocked and disappointed?" she grumbled, slight British accent coming through. "Slayer's got to eat and this job don't pay. But don't you worry your pretty little heads. I returned all the jewelry."

"How'd you manage that?" Sam asked.

"I just found a bag and tossed it onto the roof of the jewelry store. They'll find it eventually."

"And the cash?"

"There actually wasn't much," Tracee said. "A couple hundred thousand by my count. The shapeshifter must have spent most of it somewhere during the month long cool off period."

"We can't keep that, Tracee," Sam stated. The responding whine might have been a question of why? "It's blood money, Tracee. People  _died_  for it." She chose to grumble in protest. "Look—we'll talk about it when we get back. Just don't spend it."

"I'm keeping one thousand—I don't care what you say," Tracee insisted before she disconnected.

Sam stared down at his phone, incredulous, as if the device actually had been the tiny tank. Then he turned to Dean with the same expression. "Dude, don't look at me. That's  _your_  girlfriend," he said, shaking his head. Honestly, it hadn't been all that surprising. There was nothing Tracee Noland liked more than financial stability. There had actually been several arguments between her and Dean because she didn't want to spend  _her_  money on gas or motel rooms. Tracee hoarded funds like a frickin' dragon hoarded gold. So, no, it hadn't been surprising that she wanted to keep money that had been found without an owner.

"You know, maybe we jumped the gun on this, Dean," Sam muttered, snatching up his cell phone. Dean grunted, more than a little distracted. His brother continued talking, but the words didn't process in Dean's brain. He was too busy, watching the second screen at the top. A woman in a black skirt was reaching for something, causing her to bend over. The camera had captured a good view of her backside. Probably wasn't a good idea, but he maneuvered the camera to zoom in on that black skirt. For investigative purposes, of course. Pencils skirts were awesome, weren't they? "Dean!" Sam's exasperated voice broke through. Dean cleared his throat and zoomed out. "We're supposed to be looking for eyes—not ass."

"Lay off me, I'm getting there," he retorted, leaning back in his chair. "Like you're so innocent. I can't count the number of times I've seen you staring at Trace's ass."

"It's a nice ass," Sam replied, shrugging. Then he lifted his hand to rub his thumb across his lower lip. He got a faraway look in his eyes, so clearly he was imagining said ass. Dean scowled. Gross. "Anyway-" Sam cleared his throat and clasped his hands together in his lap. "-Why are you acting like a horny teenager? Didn't you get laid last night? You'd think it'd be out of your system."

"Yeah, she didn't really pan out," Dean said, frowning. "Not the brightest jewel in the store, if you know what I mean."

 _Ah_ , sweet, gorgeous, Frannie. Physically, she had been a ten. Seriously, hot. But the way she talked… It had been just a bunch of nattering. For hours. And he hadn't been drunk enough for it. Technically, he hadn't been bored with the nonsense that had come from her mouth, but he hadn't exactly been engaged either. It might have showed on his face one too many times, therefore ruining his chances of going from the bar back to her place. Honestly, it had been a little weird. Normally, he could sit through the gossip of a hot chick's ordinary life. The goal had always made the wait worth it. But last night, he just couldn't pretend to care about this woman's love of bunnies. She favored the ones with upright ears over the floppy-eared ones. After that tidbit, Dean had blanked, which probably earned him that drink to the face.

"Oh, yeah?" Sam arched a brow. "So that's what you're going for this time?"

"What?" Dean felt his face twist in confusion as he turned to stare at his brother.

"Nothing," he shrugged. "So why didn't you just come back to the room?"

"And walk in on  _you_  getting laid? No, thank you," Dean said. Sam didn't comment, which confirmed his suspicions. Those two thought they were slick, but they weren't. He saw the way Tracee had made bedrooms eyes at Sam when he had demanded the security tapes from Ronald. She hadn't even tried to hide how turned on she had been by her boyfriend's assertiveness. Then after she had backed him up a hundred percent about his treatment of Ronald, Sam hadn't been able to hide the utter adoration at all. So yeah, things had definitely gone down in the motel room after Dean had left. "So I just slept in the car to avoid having to gouge out my own eyes."

"Hilarious," Sam said, sarcasm coating his voice. "You didn't  _have_  to sleep in the car."

"It wasn't that bad," Dean said. Yeah, he had tossed and turned in the front seat of the Impala, but he hadn't had to worry about fighting off boredom until sleep managed to get him because he had, on a whim, texted Cassie. It had only been to see if she had an update on how this group of psychics might bring an apocalypse. She hadn't found anything solid, but they had texted each other back and forth for a few minutes. Then that few minutes turned into a few hours until eventually, he had fallen asleep. Huh. Maybe there hadn't been any tossing and turning… Dean blinked once, and then completely focused on the camera again. The woman on screen had walked away, but there was a man, too. He had turned to watch her go. What caught Dean's attention had been the flash of white. "Wait a minute…" He leaned forward as he zoomed the camera back in. The white glare was only on the man's eyes. "There you are, shifter!"

"Got him!" Sam stood up, noticing as well. The bank manager. The guy had been out of the view of the camera since they had been back here, so no wonder it had taken so long to find the retinal reaction. But there it was, clear as day. Dean stood up, too, ready to follow Sam out the door, but another camera shot caught his eye. The camera that pointed at the main entrance of the building showed a very familiar face. Annoyed, Dean called out to his brother, halting him in his tracks. "What?" Sam came back over. "Is that…?" They watched as the man chained the front door shut. He then pulled an assault rifle from his large bag.

"Guess whose back—back again—Ronald's back," Dean said, and then sighed. "Man, this was supposed to be easy."

"I'm calling Tracee back," Sam shook his head as he retrieved his cell phone from his pocket. And then the shots rang, followed by the hysterical screaming. Sam put the phone up to his ear and gave Dean a knowing look. Yeah, yeah. He was starting to agree that a bone would have been the worse decision. Even without the thrown bone, Ronald had clearly taken matters into his own hands. Worse than the police, after all.

" _Damn_  it, Ron!"

 

0-0

 

Things had gone from bad to worse in the span of one hour.

Had it been one hour? It had felt like it. Ronald Resnick had barely been talked down from the crazy ledge. Because of the amount of time it had taken to convince the desperate man that Dean had been on his side, the shapeshifter had freaked out and had shed its skin. The police had been called by some scared person, and now the bank was surrounded. They had cut the power, too, so there was no telling what form the shapeshifter had taken. The only weapon against the thing were letter openers. And to top it all off, it was  _hot_. Dean could deal with pressure. He worked well under pressure. Hell, his best plans came when he was under fire. But this was  _a lot_. Plus, this whole situation was a ticking time bomb. Sooner or later, he would have to find a way out of this mess. Otherwise, even if they did find and kill the shapeshifter, they would still end up going to jail.

One problem at a time, though, like he had told Sam. His brother had stayed back with Ronald, mostly to make sure the trigger happy man didn't accidently shoot someone. That would be just what he needed. So far, he hadn't come across anyone else as he look thoroughly inside every room he had come across. Hopefully, that meant everyone in the building was now in the vault. The situation wasn't ideal, but there wasn't a whole lot they could about it. Except roll with the punches.

Dean halted abruptly, catching movement just beyond a door that led to a staircase. All the doors he had come across that lead to different levels of the building had all been locked, so checking beyond them was pointless. The shifter would have had to break through, so he had stuck to the main levels of the bank. Dean ducked behind a corner and pressed himself against the wall. The shine of his flashlight aimed down at the ground so it wouldn't alert whoever was around the corner. After taking a deep breath, Dean slowly eased out of cover and focused on the dark shadow creeping around. In the dark, and with help from the outside red and blue lights, he was able to make out the small build of a person.

"Hey…!" he called out. The silhouette hadn't flinched at his voice. "Put your hands where my eyes can see!"

"What? Are you  _Busta Rhymes_  now?"

That pissed off British accent was familiar. "What? Busta-?  _Trace_?" Dean aimed his light at the figure just as she turned around. Standing there, with a frown on her face, Tracee crossed her arms. She wore dark clothing and her hair had been pulled back into a ponytail. "You're here! How'd you get here? Wait a minute!" He leveled the handgun at her. The bullets weren't silver, but they could still slow down the shifter. "How do I know you're not the shifter?"

She literally rolled her eyes even though it was a perfectly valid question. If Dean hadn't already known that the shifter could download memories and take on the personality of the person, he would have immediately believed that he was talking to the real deal. Still, the person in front of him reached into her jacket pockets and pulled out two daggers. Dean recognized them both as pure silver. They were from the Impala's arsenal. She had gone to the car first. Because of the movement, he also noticed the sword tucked in one of her belt loops. Sighing, he lowered his weapon and walked towards her.

"What the hell happened, Dean?" Tracee asked.

"A whole lot of shit," he retorted, taking a dagger from her. Tucking the weapon into front pocket of his jeans, he then took a few moments to explain the situation so far. Tracee gave him the exact same knowing face that Sam had. Dean ignored it. "Why didn't you bring guns?"

"I don't like guns," she stated. Attempting not to roll his eyes, Dean asked her how she managed to get in again. "The building next door is completely unsecured. I broke in, climbed to the top and took a running leap to this building. I'm almost surprised the police didn't notice the shattered glass."

"Yeah, too busy covering our exit, I bet," Dean muttered. "You really  _jumped_?" He examined Tracee's face a bit more. There were no scratches, but that probably meant she had covered her face when she jumped through the glass. Then he noticed. "You stopped to put on eyeliner? Really?" The tank only shrugged, muttering something about it being a normal Thursday for her. "Whatever. Okay, look… so I'm pretty sure there's one more room for me to check, and then we'll double back to the vault and play duck-duck-shifter." Tracee nodded her head, slipping the remaining dagger into her back pocket.

Together, the two quietly made their way down the hallway. Dean entered last room on the administrative floor first with Tracee following close behind. They separated and began searching the room. Nothing seemed odd, and there weren't a lot of places here that could be a hiding spot. "Dean, wait…!" Tracee hissed in a whisper. He immediately halted all movement. "Look at that." She pointed at a spot on the floor, where the beam of his flashlight shined. Dean lowered into a squat, reaching out with the sharp end of his dagger. There were grooves in the floor as though something heavy had been dragged across it. "It looks like someone moved this desk recently," Tracee remarked.

"Now, why would they do that?" Dean shifted his gaze upward. More than likely, someone stood on the desk, and then pushed it back. Dean aimed his flashlight up at the ceiling. One of the ceiling's panels wasn't straight like the others. Also, it had a water stain, which was odd because it was just in that spot alone. He stood to his full height, head turning to find an object long enough to reach the ceiling. He found a coat rack, so he handed his flashlight off to Tracee and slipped the dagger into the back pocket of his jeans. Once his hands were free, he grabbed the rack and began jabbing at the ceiling. His attempts at moving the panel met heavy resistance.

"Maybe you shouldn't…" Tracee trailed off just as part of the ceiling collapsed. The both of them had to jump back in order to avoid the heavy thing that had come through the ceiling. Dean frowned, realizing that what had come down had been a body. A naked, obviously dead, body. Tracee lightly nudged the stiff as Dean set the coat rake down. The man's throat had been cut. Practically ear to ear. "Blood's not flowing anymore," Tracee mumbled, lowering herself to get a closer look at the injury. "But this body hasn't gone through  _Rigor mortis_  yet… I'd say this recently happened—within the hour, maybe."

"Yeah, sounds about right," Dean narrowed his eyes. He recognized the guy's face. He had actually escorted this guy to the vault earlier. One of the stragglers had been the shifter. "I know who the shifter is."

"Let me guess," Tracee began, standing up straight. "He's already at the vault, surrounded by potential hostages?" Dean nodded. "Judging from this cut, he's armed and could use the extra bodies as leverage if we were to bring attention to him." She hummed in thought. "We have to do this discreetly." Tracee passed the flashlight back to him before digging into the pocket of her denim jacket. She pulled out her cell phone and quickly dialed a number. She held it to her ear and waited for the line to pick up. "Hello, darling, am I on speaker?" There was a pause as Sam responded to her. "Good. I'm with Dean right now, and we've just found the one the shapeshifter is impersonating. He's a tall, young, black man of light complexion. He's bald, too…  _Shyeah_ , but we have to lure him away from the others." For several long seconds, Tracee listened, humming as she did. "Okay, that sounds good. We'll meet you near the lobby. Be careful—there are snipers set up." After a few more seconds, she pulled her phone away and snapped it shut.

"What's the word?" Dean questioned.

"Samuel says that the security guard is having heart issues. He's already called for paramedics. The shapeshifter is playing concerned citizen, probably hoping to escape with the guard, I bet," Tracee answered. With a finger, she gestured for them to start moving. "It is the perfect cover to lure him out, so Samuel will allow the shapeshifter to 'help.' We are going to lie in wait, trap him in the middle."

"What about the snipers?"

"They wouldn't have called in the snipers unless they had a description of their target. I'm guessing the description fits only Harry, so it shouldn't be a problem, but be careful anyway and stay low," Tracee said.

With that being said, the two of them picked up their pace in order to make it to the lobby before Sam, Mr. Okey-dokey, and the shifter. Once there, Dean continued moving towards the marble stairs while Tracee stayed behind. Staying low, he glanced behind him to see that the tiny tank had already gone into hiding. He crouched on the first flight of stairs, waiting for the trio to come from the vault area. It only took a few seconds to hear the sound of his brother's voice. He couldn't make out the words, but he could tell Sam was getting closer.

Just as they rounded the corner, Dean stood up. The movement startled the three of them into halting. Dean's eyes were focused solely on the shifter. "Hey, can I talk to you for a second?" He squeezed the handle of his dagger, noticing that the shifter looked him up and down, and then his dark eyes settled on the blade. Dean pursed his lips, feeling his body tense in anticipation.

"Hey, man, this guy needs help," he replied.

"And he'll get it," Dean retorted. "Just come with me for a sec."

Dean saw the exact moment realization dawned on the shifter. He immediately shoved the security guard and Sam to the right, and then bolted to the left and back in a hasty flee. What a weird-ass run it was. The shifter's arms flailed around so much that it was almost funny. Regardless, the run was abruptly cut off because Tracee sprang from her hiding spot. Standing upright, she closed-lined him, sending him sprawled against the floor. The Slayer loomed over him, but the shifter moved fast, nailing a kick to her abdomen, which caused her to stagger.

The shifter scrambled to stand, and then shot a right straight punch at Tracee. Already recovered from the kick, the Slayer twisted around the punch, bringing up a hard right elbow to the side of the shifter's face. Still in the momentum of turning, she grabbed hold of the back of the guy's shirt and used it to slam his face against the counter. Dean felt himself wince because he definitely heard a crack. The impact did not stop the shifter, though. He swung his right arm backwards, backhanding Tracee across the face. She slammed into the island counter behind her.

He lunged at her again, but Tracee braced herself against the counter and lifted both legs, one right after the other. One foot tagged the shifter in the chest, and the other struck his face. Using him as a wall, Tracee propelled herself and flipped over onto the island counter. She stood up just as the shifter swiped at her legs. She performed an aerial cartwheel down the length of the island counter to avoid the sweep of the shifter's arm. In the same motion of the cartwheel, she slid her sword from her belt loop. Once she got back on her feet, she dropped down into a crouch, spinning on the sole of her foot while unleashing steel from its sheath. The blade sliced right through flesh. For a few heart-pounding seconds, time seemed to freeze. Then the body fell to the floor, followed closely by the head.

"Holy moly…!"

The exclamation from the security guard jolted Dean from his state of awe and reminded him of the situation at hand. Still, he would probably never get over how badass Slayers could be. Clearing his throat, Dean turned towards the two that stood at his side. "Alright, listen—everything's gonna be fine now," he said, grabbing Mr. Okey-dokey's shoulder and turning him to look away from the kill. "I'm gonna get you outta here, alright?" The old man looked three seconds from passing out. That, or losing his lunch. "Sam, you help her with that." His brother visibly swallowed, took a deep breath, and then apparently came back to reality. With a shake of his head, he pulled a band that was wrapped around his fingers.

"Here," Sam said, giving it to Dean. It was a single key, and he recognized it as the key Ronald had had earlier. Probably to the lock he had used to trap them all inside. "Well, that's one problem down." One more to go, Dean finished in thought as he watched his brother quickly head to Tracee. He helped the Slayer down from island counter, and they exchanged a few words that Dean couldn't hear. Not wasting any more time, he turned away, leading the security guard up the stairs. They would take care of the body, but he needed to figure a way for all of them to get out—all four of them.

As he moved, Dean switched his silver dagger with the handgun. He guiltily pointed it at the old man, but it was all for show. Man, how had things gotten so bad? Shaking his head, Dean unlocked the padlock, and then slowly ushered Mr. Okey-dokey out to the first door, which hadn't been locked. His 'prisoner' opened the door, hand thrown up in surrender. Dean grimaced, realizing just how bad it had gotten. SWAT was in full gear and ready to open fire had it not been for the hostage. There were police cruisers, seemingly everywhere, and—crap…! Was that a news van?

"Sonnava…" Dean said to himself, trying hard not panic. Though as the armed and dangerous enforcement moved closer, he could literally feel his panic spike. "Hey! Stay back! Don't even think about it!" Whimpering, the security guard pleaded to not be shot. At this point, Dean couldn't tell if the pleas were directed at himself or the SWAT team. As soon as Mr. Okey-dokey was clear, Dean reacted quickly and shut the door. He held his breath even as he made it behind the second set of doors. Hurriedly, he latched the doors together again. "We are so screwed," he grumbled.

With a heavy sigh, Dean backtracked back to the lobby. Sam and Tracee were nowhere to be found, along with the shifter's body. Not wanting to be a part of the cleanup crew, he headed towards the vault's direction. He found Ronald anxiously waiting. Fortunately, his rifle had been aimed at the ceiling and not anyone else. Dean sighed again, more exaggerated than before. "Wh-What happened? I heard a commotion," Ronald said.

"Don't worry about it. The shifter's been handled," Dean assured.

"We-We won?"

"Sure," he replied, flatly. "Now, I've just gotta figure out a way to get us all out and not be shot at or arrested, so…" He went over to the vault, and without looking inside, he shut the door. He could not risk anymore variables in this situation. Everyone had been rounded up. The shifter was dead. All he needed to do now is  _think_. Before he could attempt to formulate a plan, the telephone began ringing. Scrunching his brow, Dean went over to the port mounted on the wall. Hesitantly, he picked up the receiver and held it to his ear. "Yeah…?" he answered, voice coming out as tired as he felt.

"This is Special Agent Victor Henriksen," a deep, commanding voice filled his eardrum, and Dean had half a mind to pull the phone away.

"Yeah, listen—I'm not really in a negotiating mood right now, so-"

"Good," the man cut him off. "Me neither." Dean raised both eyebrows in surprise. "It's my job to bring you in—alive is a bonus, but not necessary."

"Whoa…! Kinda harsh for a federal agent, don't you think?" Dean questioned. Honestly, he hadn't been expecting this at all. From the outside, this was simply a bank robbery. No one actually died from bank heists. And people in charge didn't readily flat out admit to having killing the robbers as an option.

"Well, you're not the typical suspect, are you, Dean?" The question threw him off kilter. His eyes grew wide, trying to remember if he had heard this voice before. No. He hadn't, so how the hell did this random federal agent know about him? "I want you, Sam, and Tracee out here unarmed, or we come in. And yes, I know about Sam and Tracee, too—the good to your bad and ugly."

"Hey, now, no need for name calling, especially if it's not true," Dean retorted, forcing a grin because Ronald was watching with growing curiosity. Inside though, this was just another thing for him to think about. Some cocksure federal agent had obviously been tracking them. That meant the three of them were actually on the FBI's radar. All the illegal activities they had gotten up to in order to get the job done, and not once had they had to worry about the real FBI swooping in to bring them in. They wouldn't waste their time or their resources, but apparently they had managed to do something to bring all this attention. "How'd you even know we were here?"

"Go screw yourself—that's how I knew," the man countered. Dean frowned. Well, that had been uncalled for. He was beginning to think all Victors were assholes, not just the ones that spelled it with a 'k.' Well, the Victor he already knew was British, so maybe he didn't count as a bonafide asshole. "It's become my job to know about you, Dean," he continued, unaware that he was being compared to Tracee's father. "I've been looking for you for weeks now. I know about the murder in St. Louis. I know about the Houdini act you pulled in Baltimore. I know about the desecrations and the thefts. I know about your dad."

"You don't know crap about my dad," Dean kept his voice leveled, but honestly, this brash guy had touched a nerve.

"Ex-marine…? Raised his kids on the road, cheap motels, backwoods cabins—real paramilitary survivalist type," Henriksen continued, brushing aside the protest. "I just can't get a handle on what type of wacko he was. You know, for a second, I thought white supremacist, but that doesn't make sense. You two wouldn't be traveling around with a black girl if that was the case. Unless, of course, you've convinced a nice girl like her to be your slave… or pet."

"You've got no right talking about us like that," Dean nearly growled. "My dad was a hero. Misunderstood, sure, but most heroes are. And I  _dare_  you to try and say that in front of Trace. Hell, even Sam. That whole nice and good thing will go out the window  _real_  quick."

"Yeah, right. It sure sounds like it," Henriksen said, sarcasm clear in his voice. "You have one hour to make a decision, or we come in through those doors full automatic."

Before Dean could get another word in, the line disconnected. Clenching his jaw, he slammed the receiver down on the port. He then rubbed furiously at his temple. One hour, his ass. That pushy bastard would probably be in within fifteen minutes. Didn't give him a whole lot of time to plan. Almost timidly, Ronald called out to him, but Dean shushed him. All sorts of thoughts came to him, but not one was actually a solid plan. Either it was time-consuming or it just wouldn't work with four people. Damn it. A few minutes of going around in circles gave him nothing.

Then Sam and Tracee came into the room. Honestly, it was a relief to see them, even if the tank wore a scowl with her arms crossed. Her sword had been placed back through her belt loop. Sam now held his silver dagger in hand, dirtied by blood. "Hey," he greeted them. "Don't tell me we have another problem."

"No," Sam answered. "Stabbed it through the chest just to make sure."

"Then what's with that face?" Dean questioned, head tilting in Tracee's direction.

"Oh, she's just mad that we had to use my shirt to transport the head," Sam told him. Tracee's frown deepened. Dean noticed for the first time that Sam was now only wearing a t-shirt. The buttoned striped shirt was gone. "Apparently, she thought it was a waste because I look too good in it."

" _Really_ , Trace? Priorities please," Dean gave her a look. She only huffed in response. "Okay, alright, we've got a bit of a problem outside." That was enough for her to actually pay attention. Sam, too, furrowed his brow and gave his full attention. "The FBI's involved and they're not following procedure. They're coming in locked and loaded at any minute."

"What? For a  _bank robbery_?" Tracee asked.

"It's not a bank robbery, though," Ronald spoke up.

"Can it, Harry. This is all your fault."

"… I knew I didn't like you. An-And how come you're not British anymore?"

"Hey…!" Dean cut in before the two of them could go back and forth. "I honestly don't think they care about Ron here. It's us they're after. This guy mentioned Baltimore and St. Louis. He's gunning for all three of us."

"So much for sneaking out with the hostages…" Tracee muttered.

It came to him like a true lightbulb moment. "That's it…!" Dean might have clapped his hands in his enthusiasm. Sam and Tracee stared at him expectedly. "We can sneak out." His brother opened his mouth. "No, not with the hostages," he continued before Sam could voice his opinion. "We hide, we wait until a few of the SWAT team are separated from the rest of the group, and then we take their uniforms. We'll go out in plain sight and no one will know it's us leaving."

"Except for one thing," Tracee said. She waved a finger between herself and Ronald. "I'm too small. He's too big. We're not exactly fitting the build of a member of SWAT."

"Yeah… I thought of that, too…" Dean stated, a little bit uncomfortably. "I hate to ask you to do this, Trace, but I can't think of anything else. And we're running out of time." The tiny tank arched a brow, waiting for him to go on. "You and Ron are going to have to leave the same way you came in." She blinked once, and then visibly processed what he had meant.

"Noooo…" Tracee whined, looking as though she might stomp her foot. Dean shrugged sheepishly, feeling her pain, but they didn't have a choice. She would have to do it.

"We'll meet up where the Impala's parked. Be careful."

" _Shyeah_ , you, too."

 

0-0

 

She was a bloody criminal now.

The single thought continued to invade her mind like a broken record as she stared up at the night sky, which was currently being chased away by the morning sun. Tracee understood that certain acts in this lifestyle would be considered illegal, but she had tried her best to stay away from them. Forging credentials, stealing, all kinds of fraud, actually—she left it to Dean and Sam. However, it seemed all her efforts were for naught. She hadn't considered the fact that she would be guilty by association, and yet here it was. And not just by any local authorities, but the Federal Bureau of Investigation. Oh, God… She would never be able to get another job, would she? Not that a normal job was in her immediate future, but still… Her father was going to kill her.

Tracee sat up slowly, wincing because of the pain in her left shoulder. She imagined more than her shoulder was damaged, but at least, she hadn't landed on her feet. She would still be able to walk, or run if necessary. Beside her, Ronald Resnick panted heavily, obviously still in his state of shock. They had had to move quickly and quietly up the stairs in order to evade the SWAT team. They had barely shut the first door behind them when the team had broken through the entrance of the bank. Once they had reached the roof of the building, she wasted no time in plotting her next action.

Unfortunately, she hadn't made Ronald aware of her actions. She had ushered him to a far side of the roof, and then had picked him up. It must have been quite the shock having someone of her stature lifting him off the ground. The added weight had been a bit of a problem, but in the end, she had jumped from the bank's rooftop onto an adjacent rooftop, and the police down below had been none the wiser.

Here she was, lamenting her tarnished record, and they weren't out of hot water yet. Almost, but not quite. Tracee turned her head, shifting her attention to the wide-eyed man beside her. He hadn't passed out, and she was mildly impressed by that. "Get up, Harry. We still have to make our way down." She only received wheezing as a response.

"What? Why? How?  _What_?" he asked. She literally had to translate his words in her mind because of the wheezing.

"Four perfectly valid questions, Harry," Tracee said, drily. "However, I don't have the time or patience to hold your hand through it." Ronald sat up, finally look her way. Mostly, he was unscathed since Tracee had taken the brunt of the fall. She would live, but it was painful. Groaning a bit, she gripped her left side. "You chose to step into the dark, so here's a crash course for you. There is nothing up in space you need to worry about. What's real is the supernatural. Ghosts, vampires, demons—the monsters of your worst nightmares—they're all real."

"B-B-B-But…!"

"I said I'm not about to hold your hand," Tracee interrupted. "If you want to submerge yourself in what Dean and Sam and I do, go for it. That's your decision, but you  _have_  to be smarter. This life isn't for  _fools_." Ronald opened his mouth to protest. "You went into a bank with an assault rifle and started  _shooting_! Not exactly a genius move, Harry! It's the exact reason Samuel and I tried to shut you down." He wisely snapped his mouth shut. "Now, you have the drive—I'll give that to you because you tracked the shapeshifter all by yourself—but you are irrational as hell, and that's going to  _kill_  you. If we haven't come along, you would have died."

"I… Okay, I-I understand…" Ronald said. "But what can I do now?"

"You're a wanted man, so you can't go back to your house. You're going to have to lie low and not bring attention to yourself. Cut your hair, grow a beard—somehow change your appearance so that you're not recognized by the general public. Because if you get caught and go blabbering to people who don't need to know, it's not going to be good for anyone."

"Okay, okay, I'll go into hiding," he agreed. Tracee narrowed her eyes. The man was definitely ridiculous, but it was also resourceful. Not only had he tracked a shapeshifter, but he had also made copies of the security tapes, gotten his hands on an infantry gun, and had managed to predict where the shapeshifter would go. He had the skill, and maybe… with direction, Ronald Resnick might be helpful one day. However, the now the thought of him being a real hunter made her grimace. "Y-You said you we-weren't going to hold my hand, but-but can you, at least, tell me how I can learn?"

"… Once the heat dies down, there's a place you might be able to go…" Tracee said. "It's called  _Harvelle's Roadhouse_. If you can make it there, tell the owner the Slayer sent you. Don't give my description or name, and you might learn a few things." She grit her teeth as she pushed herself into a standing position. She would have to call Jo to get her sister the heads up. "With any luck, you may survive if you decide to step further into the dark."

"The Slayer…?" Ronald repeated. With a grunt, he, too, stood up and faced her. "Is that… what you are? You're like… like-like  _Wonder Woman_  or-or-or something."

"Sure, why not?" Tracee replied, shrugging. Then winced because the action had hurt. Dean didn't know it yet, but he owed her big time. "There's hundreds of us—we're warriors, made to combat what's in the dark. Because of that, you have a choice. Whatever you decide, the consequences are also yours. But know this, Ronald Resnick, and know it well…" Sensing the seriousness of her tone, he nodded and leaned forward.

"Wh-What?" he asked.

"If we happen to cross paths after this, and you do something as  _stupid_  as you did tonight and put my Champions at risk again, the dark will be the  _least_  of worries." She might have said that with a bit more aggression than planned because the man shrunk in on himself, face paling and eyes going wide yet again. Reigning in her mild irritation, Tracee cleared her throat. "Shall we move on?" Without waiting for his answer, Tracee turned, eyes scouring for a rooftop door. God, would have they to wear disguises for awhile? Huffing, she began making her way towards the door she had spotted.

She couldn't wait to get out of this city.

 

0-0


	36. Corruption & Disorder

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> After much debate, I decided not to cover Houses of the Holy. Because of that, I decided to put a spin on Born Under A Bad Sign.

Nestled against Tracee's chest and having her fingers slide through his hair, nails scrapping along his scalp, Sam almost forgot why he needed this. He hadn't eaten or slept in nearly four days. He had been wired twice as long. Tracee had been feeling something similar, but she had the logical sense to just stop and rest. Sam had been reluctant, but in the end, had agreed. It would not have been good for anyone if they continued to run on empty. So he had pulled over on the side of the road, and then settled on top of his girlfriend in the front seat of the Impala. With her upper back against the passenger side door, Tracee held onto him in an effort to soothe. It had been about thirty minutes now, and the ministrations had helped a lot. However, Sam couldn't bring himself to sleep. Not with the one constant thing on his mind.

Dean was missing.

His brother had been gone for over a week. And there was no sign of him anywhere. Dean hadn't left a note. He hadn't called. He had refused to pick up his phone, and so every attempt at calling had been forwarded to voicemail. No one had seen him either. Sam had even gone to Ellen Harvelle. The woman had been mildly bitter, but she truly hadn't heard anything, and had wished him luck in locating Dean. It hadn't made any sense. Where would Dean have gone? Honestly, he wasn't the most independent person. One day, sure. More than likely, he had found a girl and spent the night. That would have been normal, which is why Sam and Tracee hadn't bothered to question his sudden disappearance. More than that, and it had become bizarre. Dean would not have stayed away for so long, which had led Sam to believe that his brother hadn't necessarily been safe. But still, after a week of searching, there still hadn't been any news.

Still… Dean had been in a strange mood after that angel fiasco. That job had been a roller coaster for all of them. Sam had wanted to believe that maybe an angel had been involved. Dean had been adamant that there were no such thing as angels. Tracee had been sorta in between. She believed in angels, but had thought they had not been involved at all. In the end, it hadn't been an angel, telling random people to do God's will. Sam had been a little disappointed that it had only been a spirit of a dead priest. Especially since that spirit had come to him personally under the guise of an angel.

At any rate, disappointment had been Sam's reaction. Dean, though, had a much more… subdued reaction. After commenting that he had maybe seen God's will take care of the man the spirit had pointed out as being evil, Dean had just been so quiet. It had been noticeable. The entire job had thrown him for a loop. He had been shocked to discover that Sam prayed nearly every day and Tracee usually set time for reading the Bible on Sundays. For a moment, Dean had stared at them like he hadn't even known them. Of course, Sam and Tracee had already known about each other's beliefs. Her parents had been Christians, and that mindset had bled into her adopted life. Sam, himself, had turned to—well, got deeper into—believing after that big fallout before he had gone to college. He had been disowned, so there hadn't been much to believe in...

Over the course of the job, Dean had revealed the reason he had been so against angels existing. Their mom had believed, and yet that faith hadn't protected her from the Demon. Mary Winchester's last words to her oldest son had been angels watched over them. Sam hadn't known that. Yes, he had known how she had said it to Dean many times, but he hadn't known those were the  _last words_  Dean had heard. He had probably refused to belief in any good higher power after that. It had probably been the reason he had been so against their destinies. Probably still was… And yet after seeing how that guy died with his own eyes, Dean had said 'maybe' in regards to God's will.

For three days after they had left town, Dean had been quiet, obviously giving some thought to what he had previously rejected. Then he had snapped right back to himself. Heck, he had even seemed a little livelier. It had been odd, but not in a bad sense. He had volunteered to do the mundane tasks, which he would normally push and bribe his way out of doing. Maybe it had been a way to distract himself, but there hadn't been any complaints. Because of that, Sam and Tracee hadn't even thought about it when Dean had told them he was heading out to grab food. He had gone to the diner down the street—hadn't even taken the Impala—and hadn't come back. He had just… disappeared.

Sam squeezed his eyes shut, feeling his insides squirm. God, what was he going to do without his brother? He couldn't possibly get through all this without Dean. What if he was just gone forever? What if they never found him? Worse, what if they did eventually find him, and he was… still  _gone_? Damn it, he needed his brother. "Samuel…" Tracee's voice slipped through the regressing thoughts before they could spread further. Her fingers curled and tugged on his hair. Sam sighed out, not realizing he had been holding his breath. "We'll find him," she went on, loosening her grip. Sam sighed again, shuddering. He rubbed his cheek against her chest and held on tighter. Eyes opened now, they were on the glove compartment, but weren't actually focused. He wanted to believe her. He did, but it had been over a week. Statistically speaking… Dean was already… "We'll find him. We will." Once again, Tracee's voice pushed through the disarray of this thoughts, more resolute than before. Her fingers resumed sliding through his hair. "Or he'll find us. Dean is stronger than even he realizes. I know you're worried, and that's okay. Just don't… think about  _not_  finding him, okay?"

"Okay," Sam repeated. "I'll try." Tracee hummed lightly, nails slid along the back of his neck. Without her, he might have lost his mind over this by now. Even though she hadn't been having a good time either. There had been a few times where Sam had caught the distraught look in her eyes. Even though she was just as worried, she mostly held it back for his sake. Sometimes, he would wonder if Tracee thought he was too selfish. Truthfully, whenever things got rough, Sam would end up relying on either Dean or Tracee, or both, to give reassurances. They did that a lot for him, he realized, and Sam didn't think he did it for them nearly enough in return.

"It'll be fine. In the end, things will work out," Tracee said.

Sam felt himself nodding as he shut his eyes. A puff of air left his mouth, suddenly more inclined to drifting off to sleep. Maybe with a clear mind, he could actually think of a practical way of finding Dean instead of running around in a panic. Sam pursed his lips, focusing on the steady beat of Tracee's heart and the raindrops pelting the outside of the Impala. It was cold, wet, and dreary outside, kinda fitting the somber mood. But with any luck, after they finished resting, the rain would stop.

Just as Sam was about to attempt shutting off his thoughts, his ears picked up the muffled sound of his cell phone ringing. He opened his eyes, reaching for the device with his left hand. Pulling it out, he brought the cell phone into his line of sight. Seeing the screen light up, he recognized the number calling before his eyes glanced at the actual name. Abruptly, Sam sat up, sucking in a sharp breath as he did. He immediately pressed the button to answer the call and held the phone to his ear. On his right, he heard Tracee sit up, too, but he was much too focused on the surprising phone call. "Dean? Where are you? Are you okay?" Sam interrogated. His questions caused Tracee to go rigid, and he couldn't help but glance at her even though he was waiting for some type of answer. She appeared just as startled and apprehensive.

" _Sammy_ …" Hearing the hoarse voice of his brother caused Sam to sigh in relief, but also made his heart pound against his chest. " _I… I think something's happened to me_."

"What? What are you talking about? Where are you?" Sam questioned.

" _I don't… I don't know, man… Just—can you meet me here? I think I'm Wisconsin_ ," Dean replied.

"Text the address, we're on our way," Sam stated, no hesitation. Dean grunted in affirmation, and then disconnected the call.

"That was Dean? Where is he?" Sam turned to her as he pulled the phone away from his ear. He opened his mouth in order to give her some type of response, but a chime from her cell phone interrupted, indicating Tracee had received a message. Wasting no time, she removed her cell phone from the pocket of her jeans and flipped it open. Her eyes scanned over the words of the message, widening considerably. She lifted her gaze, focusing on Sam. "Wisconsin? What the bloody hell is he doing in Wisconsin?!"

Her surprise was warranted. Wisconsin was several states over. Dean had ended up so far away. "I don't know," Sam answered with a shake of his head. "Maybe he couldn't say over the phone. But we know where he is now, so let's go get him." Tracee narrowed her eyes, but nodded her head in agreement. She held her hand out, and Sam passed her his cell phone. While she went to work inputting the address into his phone so they could navigate to Wisconsin, he turned the key in the ignition and started up the car. Even though he had told her that, Sam couldn't help but have similar, if not the same, questions. Once again, the questions churned in his mind. At least, this time, it wasn't equipped with crippling anxiety.

It took them nearly twelve hours to get to the motel Dean have given. It would have taken longer had Sam obeyed the rules of the road, but the uneasiness he felt had prevented him from trying. He quickly parked the car, and then opened his door and got out. Tracee didn't bother to wait for him. She opened her own door and climbed out, too. Together, they nearly jogged into the motel, and immediately began searching for the designated room. 109, he remembered Tracee telling him when they had still been on the road. After moving down a long hallway, they finally came across the three digit number they had been looking for. Tracee was the one to knock on the door.

"Dean…!" she called out. "Dean, it's us!" There was no response to her knocking or voice. She frowned, and looked about five seconds from kicking down the door. Before she could, Sam reached up and twisted the doorknob. It hadn't been locked. Frowning himself, Sam pushed the door open and cautiously stepped inside. The door was shut, but he only paid attention to the figure sitting on the edge of the bed.

"Dean…" Sam walked forward.

The sound of his name finally jerked his brother out of his daze. He looked up, and then turned his head in their direction. With a sigh of relief, Dean stood up and completely faced them. Because of that, he saw the giant bloodstain on the front of his shirt. Beside him, Tracee nearly choked on a gasp. Sam couldn't disagree with her reaction. He had had to swallow his own gasp of surprise. Tracee moved forward, hands already reaching out to check for damage. "Wait a second, Trace…!" Dean said, holding up his hand. The action and words halted her from doing body checks. "It's… It's not mine," he told her. Then his eyes shifted from her to Sam. "I don't… I don't know whose blood this is."

"What? What happened to you then?" Tracee questioned.

"That's just it…" Dean muttered. His raised hand moved, fingers curling to grip his shirt where the where the dried blood spatter was. "I can't remember anything. I don't know."

"What does that mean? You can't remember anything at all? Or…?" Sam shook his head in confusion.

"I  _mean_ , I'm suddenly here in the ass end of nowhere—a place I've never been. There's blood on my hands and shirt. You two are nowhere to found… I mean, I-I'm drawing a blank here, man! I have no idea what happened to me!" Dean rambled as he paced from bed to bed. The more he spoke, the more his expression became panicked.

"Alright, calm down," Sam told him. "We'll figure out what happened. But first things first, you need to get outta those clothes. Tracee will grab some for you from the car." He noticed his girlfriend already nodding her head in agreement. "Take a shower. While you're doing that, I'll talk to someone at the front desk—see if they can tell me anything about when or how you got here."

"Okay…" Dean replied.

He stopped moving for a few seconds before nodding his head. He then went towards the bathroom. The two left behind watched him until the door shut. A heavy sigh came from Tracee's mouth, causing Sam to shift his focus on her. She had reached up, and was now scratching at her neck. Clearly, Dean's loss of memory, combined with blood—there had been  _a lot_ —had made her anxious. Maybe more than before. Sam reached for her, hand giving her shoulder a small squeeze. Tracee breathed deeply through her nose, and then lowered her fingers from her neck. She accepted the silent comfort, shutting her eyes for a moment before lightly brushing her fingers against his knuckles.

"Okay," she murmured, an echo of what Dean had said. Then she turned, heading for the door of the motel room. After a beat, Sam followed after her, thoughts churning again. This was definitely a different situation. It seemed that roles were flipped, and it wouldn't be just for a moment with the way things were going. Sam had a feeling that whatever happened to his older brother had been no small thing. A week gone, reappearing without all of his memories, blood that hadn't been his own—something definitely had gone down, and before it was all revealed, Sam predicted there would be many instances of reassurance, coming from himself.

0-0

By the time Sam returned to the room, Dean had already changed his clothes. His brother was now pacing the room, roughly rubbing at his jaw as he moved. From her sitting position on the edge of one of the beds, Tracee's gaze followed his movements as though he might disappear from her sight. Sam couldn't blame her. He still couldn't believe it had been over a week since the last time they had seen him. On top of that, there had been no explanation for his disappearance so far because not even Dean seemed to know.

Both of them were clearly anxious. Dean with his pacing, and Tracee with her twisting her fingers through her hair to unravel the crown of braids. She had taken to braiding her hair like that after the shapeshifter job. It had been a simple disguise, but now she undid her hair, probably not even thinking about the purpose of the braids. This whole thing was nerve-wracking, and they both showed it. Sam wondered if he had been exhibiting a nervous tick, too. Honestly, he was pretty freaked about his brother losing a part of his memory and the blood. With an internal sigh, Sam shut the door, causing both Dean and Tracee to look his way.

"What'd you find?" Dean questioned, halting his pacing. Tracee stood up from the bed, and stared expectedly. Sam told himself not to become distracted by his girlfriend's half kinky hair. He cleared his throat and turned his full attention to his brother.

"Two days ago, you checked in under the name Cliff Williams, according to the manager," he stated. "He hasn't heard anything about you, so apparently, you kept to yourself. Nobody saw anything strange."

"You mean no one saw me walking around covered in blood?" Dean asked, sarcastically. He went back to his pacing. Sam pressed his lips together, not having a response to that. "Then what the hell? I mean, how'd I even get here?"

"Well, now that we're all together again, we can work to figuring it out," Tracee spoke up. "We just have to…" She released a heavy sigh. "We just have to calm down, look for clues, and find out what exactly happen. We do it all the time."

" _Ah_ , Trace—ever the voice of reason," Dean retorted. His voice was a bit more cutting than affectionate, which was weird. Judging from Tracee's frown, she, too, felt uncomfortable by his sarcastic tone. Sam went over to his girlfriend, nudging her arm a bit with his elbow as Dean paced the room, seemingly unaware of the reaction his words had caused. Tracee pressed her lips together, choosing only to glance his way before focusing back on the muttering from Dean. "Okay, so… the last thing I remember was… Texas. I went to grab some burgers," Dean said, turning to face them. "Next thing I know, I'm sitting here in the dark and you guys aren't around."

"That was when you disappeared," Tracee said. "You're missing memories for an entire week."

"A week…? Man, it felt like I'd been asleep for a month, but come on! A week? What were you guys doing? Couldn't tear yourselves away from each long enough to come looking for me?!"

"Hey…! We started looking as soon as you didn't come back to the motel after an hour!" Sam exclaimed, taking offense to the dig. Both Tracee and himself had run themselves ragged, trying to locate any sign of Dean. They hadn't so much as kissed since he had gone missing. Not even small reassuring kisses. That had been how frantic they had been about his disappearance. Dean only snorted. "Look—we just gotta go backwards instead of forwards for this. The manager said he did see you leave yesterday afternoon, but he didn't see you come back, so… that means you didn't go pass the front desk. What does that tell us?"

"He snuck in," Tracee said. "Whatever happened, he had enough sense to do that, and so his state of mind was not hindered... at least, not to the point of complete blackout." She narrowed her eyes, and then looked towards the window. She walked over, sliding the curtain away from the glass. After a few seconds, she stepped to the side, pointing at the window's handle. There, on the window's handle, were bloody fingerprints. "Just enough to make you sloppy, though." She had said the last thing with slight displeasure. "There's probably more out back, so let's go collect it, hide it if we have to, and solve a mystery."

Both brothers agreed, so after quickly unraveling the rest of her hair, and slipping on a large dark blue hairband, the three left the motel room in search of evidence. They had circled the building, not really coming across anything suspicious or unusual. The path leading to Dean's room hadn't offered more bloody handprints or a weapon, actually. After about ten minutes of searching, Dean suddenly halted. They were in an alleyway now, in between the motel and a string of storage units. "Hold on a sec…" he mumbled, mostly to himself. He scrutinized a specific door before pointing a finger. "I think… I think I've been here before—like some sorta déjà vu, or something."

"So you don't actually remember?" Tracee moved to stand beside him. Dean shook his head. "Well, I guess we should open it." She walked forward, hand lifted to lightly grasp the padlock, which sealed the door. "You wouldn't happen to be sensing déjà vu about a key, would you?" Dean shook his head, but then froze.

"Wait…" He stuck his hand into the front pocket of his jeans, and then pulled out a single silver key. Sam's eyebrow jerked at the sight of it. Frowning, Dean passed the key along to Tracee, who took it with narrowed eyes. The wariness on etched into her expression was clear to Sam. But Tracee chose not to speak on it. She merely turned and inserted the key into the lock. It fit like a glove. She twisted the key and slipped the lock away. "So weird…" Dean commented, seemingly in disbelief.

"Hold on—we should wear gloves," Sam mentioned. "We don't know what we're going to find here." Already, he was looking for pairs he normally kept in the inside pocket of his jacket. He had grown accustomed to carrying out surgical gloves ever since Tracee had joined them. Her cautious way of gathering evidence during investigations had extended to him, so more often than not, he would be the one passing out the blue gloves.

"So what we betting?" Dean asked, snapping the wrist of the glove against his skin. "More blood or the whole body?"

"Dean…!" Sam glowered, not amused in the least. His brother only shrugged. "We're not betting anything!"

"But if we  _were_ , I'd bet against the dead body," Tracee mentioned. She squatted downed, ignoring the admonishing way Sam said her name. "There was too little blood on your clothes to indicate you were carrying a bleeding body." Her covered fingers curled around the handle. "Your pants would have had it, too… Besides, you're not foolish enough to hide a body right outside your room." She stood up straight, lifting the door of the storage unit. Inside was a bright red Ford Mustang with two white stripes down the middle. For a couple seconds, the three of them stared at the vehicle, varying degrees of shock. "I take back the foolish comment," Tracee muttered.

"Please tell me you didn't steal  _this_!" Sam sharply turned to his brother, but Dean only shrugged. A classic car like this—in mint condition, judging by its appearance—would be missed. And it was flashy enough to be recognized by  _anyone_. Something like this could easily be tracked, which meant that Dean could easily be tracked, too. "God, Dean, even if you don't remember, what in the world could have made you thought it was okay taking this car?"

"Don't know," Dean replied, giving another shrug. "But it's a pretty awesome ride. If I was gonna cheat, this is definitely a car I'd go for." He stepped forward, examining the vehicle with an appreciative eye. "What do you think this is? '72? '73?"

"Can't say it's important right  _now_ , Dean!" Sam scolded.

"Lighten up, Sammy," he retorted. "Just a joke." Sam didn't think this was the time for jokes either. Shaking his head, he, too, moved towards the car. He and Tracee took to peering through the passenger side while Dean immediately went to open the door on the driver's side. "Hey…" His brother's head popped up, along with a large bloody knife. Sam's mouth dropped open. "It was underneath the seat…" For several long seconds, none of them said anything. Heck, it almost seemed like none of them breathed. Then Dean let out a nervous chuckle. "You don't think I…?" he trailed off, half-grin faltering.

"We-" Tracee glanced at Sam, both of them exchanging a look of uncertainly. From the outside, looking in, it seemed like they had found a murder weapon. But Dean couldn't have… right? "We still don't know much despite the knife. Let's keep looking." She opened the passenger door and lowered herself to search. Sam anxiously waited for more clues. He couldn't help but think that maybe Dean had resorted to killing someone because he had felt like he hadn't had a choice. Without someone around to tell him, or convince him, differently, he had gone from zero to last resort without really thinking about it. That unnerved him more than it should have. "Got something," Tracee announced, maneuvering out of the car. She shut the door, and then held up a slip of paper. "A recent gas receipt, dated for yesterday."

Without speaking further, the three left the storage unit, locked it back up, and then headed towards the Impala in the front.

They gas station had been just a few towns over, so it hadn't taken them long to reach it. The answers they had found there had been baffling to say the least. Apparently, Dean had been drunk, had stolen cigarettes and a forty ounce bottle of malt liquor, before lighting up and slinging the glass bottle at this poor guy's head. The man had been rightfully angry by Dean's reappearance and had threatened to call the cops. He had to be both threatened, and bribed, in order to get those answers. Eventually, the guy had told them the direction Dean had headed after he had caused a big scene.

Now, they were on the road again, trying to find wherever Dean had gone. Somewhere north, according to the gas station worker. Other than that, none of the behavior the guy had mentioned had made sense. First, Dean was wanted by the law. He wouldn't cause a scene so unnecessarily. Second, Dean didn't  _smoke_. Bad oral hygiene, he had told Sam once. Third, he wasn't a violent drunk. No matter how drunk he might become, violence and anger weren't apart of the shenanigans. He was the type of drunk that would compliment random people, beg for cuddles, and smile stupidly at everyone—friendly stuff like that. So to hear contradicting evidence had boggled the mind, and left all three of them pretty quiet during the car ride.

Then, abruptly, Dean veered off road onto a hidden path. It had been a path that no one would have noticed, especially in the dark of night, without actually knowing it was there. Sam shifted his gaze to his brother, silently questioning his actions. "It just… It feels familiar, you know?" Dean explained as they drove down the darkened path. Behind Sam, Tracee hummed. It was almost more aggressive than thoughtful. Eventually, they came to a stop outside a large house. It seemed to be private property because there were no other houses anywhere. Plus, the path had been lined with motion sensor lights. Whoever lived here clearly wanted to know who came and went.

The three exited the car, heading towards the porch. Another light came on, catching Sam's attention. There was a security camera attached, validating his previous thought. However, as the three moved onto the porch, the lights from inside did not come on. There was no indication that anyone had noticed their presence. Taking a silent deep breath, Sam knocked on the front door. Dean didn't wait. He walked down the porch, seemingly trying to look inside the house through the window. " _Uh_ … Sam, Trace," he called out. The knocks hadn't been answered, and so Sam and Tracee headed over to Dean. "Take a look at this." His took out his small flashlight and aimed it at the windowsill. Broken glass practically covered the ledge.

"Odd…" Tracee remarked as Sam took out his own flashlight, and then more gloves. She waited until the gloves were on before continuing her line of thought. "At first glance, you'd think forced entry, but the glass was broken from the inside."

"Either way, a place like this, wouldn't there be an alarm?" Sam muttered, already in the process of sweeping the glass away, so they could climb in.

"Oh, there is," Dean said, shifting the attention to him. He had gone to the left end of the porch and was leaning over the edge to get a look around the corner. With a sigh, he turned around to face them. "Box's been tampered with. Doesn't take a genius to figure out where this leads."

"We don't know anything yet," Sam said. "Let's get inside first." Dean pressed his lips together, but nodded his head in agreement. Clenching his jaw, Sam was the first to climb in through the window. Tracee next, and then Dean. Already, they could see the shambles the place had been left in. There was a broken cabinet, and shattered dishes littered the floor. Clearly, there had been a struggle, mostly in this room from the looks of it. Frowning, Sam continued through a hallway, praying that would come across something that wouldn't further paint his brother in a bad light.

The broken things led them to a room just down the hall. Inside, there was someone laying on the floor. Sam's eyes grew wide as Tracee moved in front of him and crouched down to examine the person. Her covered fingers reached out to touch, only to draw away seconds later. " _Rigor mortis_ ," she said. "He's dead." Sam looked around for a light switch. When he found it, he flipped the switched the lights came on. Tracee carefully turned the body over, revealing a dried pool of blood that stained the carpet and the slit throat of the victim. Sam had to force himself not to choke at the sight.

"So I guess this means the jury's in, huh?" Dean said, pocketing his flashlight. He stepped into the room, eyes unreadable, but focused on the dead body. "Poor bastard." Sam shook his head. He couldn't believe it. Not this. Not Dean. "I mean, the blood, the car, the knife… and now this guy. Looks like I killed him."

"No," Sam whispered. Dean turned to him. "I mean, we still don't know."

"Look, Sam, we've come full circle on this," he retorted. "I know it's hard to believe, but-"

"It's not just hard, Dean! It's impossible that  _you_  could have done this!"

"Why? Because I'm a  _Champion_?" he questioned, sarcastically. Sam felt his face contort in confusion. What did that have to do with anything? "The facts line up, alright? I did this, and no amount of disbelief is gonna change that."

"It's not over yet. Sure, we've found the reason for the blood," Tracee said, standing. She turned towards them. "However, the only thing that tells us is that you were here. We don't know the reason for that, and we don't know exactly what happened."

"She's right," Sam said, relieved. "And even if you really did this, there must have been a reason." It was slight, but he saw the flash of annoyance on Dean's face. What the hell? He should be grateful that the two of them were trying to help him crawl out from under the label of cold-blooded murderer. "There must be something here that tells us who this guy is." Sam's gaze darted over to the closed double-door to the right. It had a lock on it. "Tracee, I need my lock pick."

"Alright," she muttered, reaching inside the back pocket of her jeans. She quickly handed him the tool, and Sam went to work on the lock. Soon enough, the lock clicked, allowing him full access. He slid the two doors opened to reveal another room. It was a workshop full of many types of guns and knives on display and newspaper article clippings. There were maps, charts, and foreign symbols, too. Sam almost instantly recognized the structure. " _Shit_ …" Tracee, too, recognized what she was looking at.

"A hunter," Sam said out loud. "He was a hunter." He shook his head. "Why would-?"

"Like I said, I don't know," Dean interrupted. "But there's a camera up there." Sam turned to his brother to see that his gaze was upward. Sam followed his line of sight to see another security camera perched in the corner of the ceiling. Then he looked towards the desk where a computer was set up. Since the workshop was so close, more than likely the computer had access to the security feeds. Sam hurriedly grabbed a chair and scooted over to the desk to start up the computer. This could prove once and for all what had happened to this hunter. Both Dean and Tracee crowded around him. The desktop wasn't password protected, and luckily, neither was the file to the security feeds. Sam quickly opened the file and found the specific date and camera.

The video pulled up, but it was at the very start of yesterday. He hit the fast forward button and intently watched for whenever the confrontation, which ended in a dead hunter, had happened. It must have been a reason, or maybe Dean had come in afterwards, and found the guy already dead, and had probably tried to help. That seemed more plausible than… the alternative. "There we go," Dean said, tapping Sam's shoulder, prompting him to play the video recording at normal speeds. They all watched in mute horror as the dead hunter and someone, who looked way too much like Dean, brawl on the floor. The hunter had gotten some shots in, but mostly, Dean had completely overwhelmed him.

Then the knife came out. Even on the slight hazy recording, Sam recognized the shape of it. On the video, Dean dragged the man, and then lifted his chin. Without hesitating, he slid the knife across the man's neck. The body was tossed to the side and Dean stood up, wiping the knife on his shirt. The video kept playing, but Sam was too much in shock to stop it. He swallowed hard, feeling his brain try to process what he had just witnessed. "I…" Tracee seemed at a loss as well, but the quiet murmur managed to snap Sam out of it. He quickly deleted the video. Then the entire file. Then, just to be on the safe side, he set up the process for a factory reset of the entire computer.

"We have to leave now," Sam stated, standing from the chair. As isolated as this place was, he didn't want to risk any fellow hunters stumbling across the murder scene with them still in the thick of it. God…  _Murder_  scene. As it stands, his brother was a goddamn murderer. And he had no idea what he was going to do about it. Not now. Not with the actual murder replaying on repeat in his head. Sam ushered both Dean and Tracee out of the room, turning off the light as he did. The three made their way out of the house and to the Impala.

"Well, I don't know about you two…" Dean began once they had call settled in the car. "But I could use a drink." In the backseat, Tracee gave no response. Heck, Sam didn't know what to say either. "Drinks, it is," he said, starting up the car. They drove in silence. Honestly, Sam was on auto-pilot. He just couldn't comprehend how Dean had killed a man even though he had seen it with his own two eyes. There were times, of course, he had threatened lives, but he never actually went through with it. That meant that Dean wasn't capable of straight up murder… right? And a hunter on top of that? God, as if they weren't already on the run from police and the FBI.

By the time they had found a bar, Sam hadn't managed to erase the recording from his mind. Even as they had found a table and ordered a round, he could only sit there, muted. The image of his brother slicing into that hunter's neck hadn't blurred in the least. " _Jeez_ , would you two lighten up?" Dean's question made Sam lift his gaze from the table. "You're acting like this isn't an everyday occurrence."

"It isn't an everyday occurrence, Dean!" Sam snapped. "You-" He stopped, remembering that they were in public. His scanned the bar for any potential eavesdroppers. He found none. It was so late at night, there wasn't a crowd to worry about. There was one person at the bar, having a low conversation with the barkeep. The two seemed much too engaged to be trying to listen in on another conversation happening at the opposite end building. "You  _killed_  someone," Sam continued. "And we still don't know the reason for it!" Dean only scoffed and took a gulp of his beer. "I don't understand why you're so calm about this!"

"Again,  _everyday occurrence_ ," Dean said, setting the glass bottle back down. "Hell, the guy was probably bad news, and it was self-defense." That had not been self-defense. Maybe it had started out that way. Hopefully. But the ending hadn't been defense. And after it had been done, Dean had tossed away the body like trash. Any jury it would have reached a unanimous decision. "Sitting around crying about how I offed a guy isn't going to help, so why bother?"

"Perhaps… he's right," Tracee said, speaking for the first time since they had left the house. "Perhaps we should be focusing on the events leading up to…" Her fingernails lightly slid up and down the side of her neck. Clearly, she was just as troubled as Sam. "… to that hunter's house. We haven't found the reason for the memory loss. We also don't know the motivation behind it." The whole thing still unnerved Sam, but he could see the logic. Find the source to it all so that it wouldn't happen again.

"See? Even Ms. Know-It-All agrees," Dean said. Tracee lowered her gaze to the table and frowned. The remark had been a bit spiteful, and she had picked up on it. Pressing her lips together, Tracee stood up and excused herself, muttering that she would look for a bathroom. After she was gone, Sam glared at his brother, but Dean had chosen to drink more of his beer. It hadn't been the first time one of his comments had left Sam feeling uncomfortable. Ever since they had reunited, he had been agitated. Understandable, yeah, given the memory loss, but the way he had lashed out had been weird. The indifference, the biting sarcasm—they were just plain weird reactions.

"What's your problem, Dean?" Sam blurted. His brother only lowered the bottle to the table, wrinkling his brow in confusion. "Even with the memory loss, nothing about what we found out so far is  _you_. Making stupid decisions like stealing a flashy car? Smoking menthols? Throwing bottles at people? And now you're acting like you don't even  _care_  that an innocent man's blood is on your hands!"

"Sam, it's not that big of a deal," Dean said. Sam opened his mouth, flabbergast and disgust combined, threatening to spill out. "I mean, we do what we do, and we move on. That's how it's always been. That's how it'll always be, especially now. There's no escaping this." Now, Sam was even more confused, and it must have showed on his face because Dean sighed heavily. "These last couple of weeks, I've been thinking about it, man. As long as we're Champions—as long as we gotta protect the Slayer—we've got no chance of joining normal society. So why bother being careful and covering our tracks, huh? Why bother caring about people who die around us? As long as it's not the Slayer, we're good. Maybe after she's dead, then we can regret and remorse, but until then, what's the point?"

"What?!" Sam could not believe the things that had come from his brother's mouth. Dean might put up a good front, but he cared about people, cared about saving them, maybe more so than Sam. And to so nonchalantly mention a hypothetic scenario where the two of them outlived Tracee was pretty damning as well. The three of them had been together for so long now that there was no one without the other two, and yet here Dean was talking about her as though she wasn't even a person.

"Don't look at me like that. You know I'm right."

"No, you're  _not_ , Dean! You're acting like… like-"

"Like dad…?" he suggested. Sam wrinkled his brow. "One track mind? Obsessive? Only living for the next hunt? Any of that ringing any bells for you, Sam?" Dean snorted derisively. "Seriously, I got the short end of the stick."

"What are you talking about, Dean?"

"You know what I'm talking about," he said. "We were both raised by the same man, but you got all the good stuff. You got to go school. You got the girl— _twice_. And now you're just so damn happy. Probably optimistic about the future. Me? Not so much. I get stuck with all the bad crap. Trying to live up to impossible expectations. Being a big brother, a mom, and a son all at the same time. There's no future for me, Sammy. Kinda wears on a guy after a while, you know. Dad knew it, and now I know."

"Wh-Where is this coming?"

"It's not coming outta nowhere. It's always been there. You're the lucky one—the  _favorite_ —and I'm just… dad's horrible legacy."

Sam stared at the person that sat in front of him. He seriously could not comprehend that last bit. Insulting dad? The man had been an ass. On that, both brothers agreed, but simultaneously insulting their dad and himself—that just wasn't Dean. He had too much respect for John Winchester to go labeling him negatively like that. Sam shook his head in disbelief. He didn't know what the heck had gotten into his brother, but this whole situation was- All scattered thoughts stuttered to a halt, and then rapidly clicked into place.  _Something had gotten into his brother_.

"Who are you…?" Sam asked. Immediately, the imposter froze, eyes focusing on him with startled intensity. After a few seconds, a casual grin began forming. "Who  _are_  you?!" Sam repeated, a hard edge taking over his voice. The grin faltered before it could completely show up. God, he had been stupid. The facts were right there in front of him, and yet he had only now figured it out. Of course, this wasn't Dean. None of his behavior had been his brother. He should have checked. It should have been the first thing he had checked after too long of a separation.

" _Oh_ , Sammy…" the imposter finally spoke up. He leaned back in his seat, way too relaxed after having been found out. "You're too smart for your own good." The confirmation had Sam reaching for a weapon in his jacket. " _Ah_ ,  _ah_ ,  _ah_ … You wouldn't want to cause a scene right now, would you? Not when big brother is already wanted by the police?" Begrudgingly, Sam returned his hand to the table, eyes glancing towards where the two people by the bar still were. This imposter had a point. Plus, if things got out of hand, one of them, or both, could get hurt. Damn it. He should have waited to expose whoever this was.

"Who are you?" Sam questioned through clenched teeth.

"I got lots of names," he responded. "This week, it's  _Dean_." Sam glowered, more than just a little pissed. " _Haah_ … I gotta admit—this has been fun. You should have seen the looks on your faces when you thought Dean murdered that guy!" He giggled, the noise sounding wrong coming from his brother's mouth. A smirk surfaced, and it appeared unhinged on his face. Sam forced himself not to cringe at the sight. "The way you two have him on a pedestal—pathetic. The instant your precious protector did something so heinous without reason, your world crumbled. Even the Slayer. Which made it so easy to torment the three of you. See, I was going to just walk back into that motel room, and kill you both in your sleep, but  _nah_ , I thought. What's the fun in that? You see, you three are your biggest weaknesses, and I just proved it. So what better way to torture all of you at the same time than to rip out your hearts?"

"Why? Why go so far?" Sam asked.

"Wouldn't you like to know?" he countered. Suddenly, Sam heard footsteps approaching, causing his line of sight to shift to the left. Tracee slowly made her way back to the table, gaze focused on the floor. Damn it. She had no idea what she was about to step into, and there wasn't a whole lot of time to warn her. "Anyway, fun's over now." His words made Sam turn back to his brother's possessed body. A hand reached for the beer bottle on the table, and then abruptly smashed it against the surface. He stood up and sharply turned, stabbing the sharp end into Tracee's abdomen.

"No…!" Sam shouted, standing up.

He watched, horrified, as Tracee's eyes expanded in shock. There had been a scream elsewhere, but Sam could only stay focus on the sight in front of him. She looked down at the broken bottle impaled in her, and then, gasping, she looked back up at the one that had done it. Blood spilled, staining her striped shirt. "D-Dean… Wh-What? Why?" She clenched her teeth, hands lifting to grip the imposter's wrist. Sam just couldn't stand by anymore. He swiped his right hand to the right, causing his brother's body to go flying in that direction. He heard the crash, but he was already moving towards Tracee. Grimacing, she used both hands to pull the bottle from her stomach. "Sa-Samuel…" she croaked as the bottle fell to the floor.

Sam pressed his hand against her stomach, wincing himself. Her blood coated his palm. God, there was so much of it. "Sammy…! You've been holding out on me!" Dean's voice made him glare at the demonic son of a bitch that had possessed his brother. Truthfully, he hadn't gotten around to telling Dean about how he had picked up practicing with his powers again. It hadn't necessarily been a secret, but… "Keeping secrets from each other—I  _thought_  we were above that now!"

The demon reached into the inside of Dean's jacket and pulled out his gun. "Damn it!" Sam hurriedly picked up Tracee, cradling her close to his body. He then took off, knowing he wouldn't be able to fight back—not seriously—against the demon and a gun. Not with his girlfriend injured and the enemy using Dean's body. " _Deus_ …!" He threw the word behind him right before he heard the gun shot. Sam flinched, but kept moving. For now, he had to ignore the screaming from the woman at the bar. All he could think of was getting away, getting Tracee someplace safe, and getting to the car. Damn it. He should have held back, waited for the right moment to expose the demon, but now he had to deal with the consequences.

Stopping at the driver's side of the Impala, Sam quickly maneuvered his hand to get the door open. That Latin word had bought him time, he knew, but who knows how long that time would be. Carefully, yet as quick as he could, he slid Tracee in across the seat. She groaned, in obvious pain, but the twisted expression on her face revealed so much confusion. Following behind her, Sam pressed her own hand against her wound in an effort to apply pressure. "Samuel, wha-" she managed to whimper before letting out a hiss.

"It's not Dean!" Sam turned from her, fumbling to get the spare key out of his front pocket. "That wasn't Dean!" Finding it, he hurriedly inserted the key into the ignition. The Impala came to life, along with the headlights. The beams showed the path in front of them, blocked by the demon possessing Dean's body. Even with the darkness surrounding, Sam could see the void of black that replaced his brother's eyes, reflected because of the headlights. The demon raised his arm, gun in hand. Sam quickly put the car in reverse, and it lurched back in response. Several shots rang out, and oh, man, Dean was going to be pissed about the bullet holes. Luckily, the demon seemed to be crap at shooting because the windshield remained intact as Sam drove backwards.

Finally, he reached a point where he could turned the car around. The Impala sharply turned until he faced the road frontwards. Sam switched gears, and then sped off into the night. "We-We can't lea-leave him!" Tracee managed a ragged shout over the sound of gunshots. The back window shattered. Sam ducked his head, putting more pressure on the gas. Eventually, they reached a point where the gunshots stopped and only the sound of the car moving through the night could be heard. They weren't  _leaving_  him. They were retreating for now. Honestly, that demon inside Dean sounded too hellbent on making sure the three of them pay for whatever transgression they had done. He would seek them out again to make them pay. Right now, though, the most important thing was to make sure his Slayer didn't bleed out. And she hadn't been eating right for a week, so there was no telling when the stab wound would heal. "We should have checked…" Tracee groaned loudly.

"Yeah…" Sam agreed, shaking his head. Thinking about the deranged grin on his brother's face as his hand had been used to stab Tracee. God… Sam frowned, blinking back the stinging in his eyes. The demon hadn't been that far off from ripping out hearts. "But we'll get him back. We'll get him back." They just had to hope that the demon wouldn't do anything else while they recuperated.

0-0

"Dean…!"

It was a surprise to see him. A pleasant one. A slow boyish grin spread across his face, and the familiar expression caused her insides to tingle. She hadn't seen it in a while. Maybe that was the reason for the tingles. Small chats, via texts, which turned into long, distracting, conversations weren't exactly the same as speaking face to face. Now, here he stood outside her door, wearing a grin that had always managed to disarm her. "Hey, there, Cassie," Dean greeted, dipping his chin and looking at her through his long eyelashes. The tingles grew, and she had to stifle a bit of the smile that might have overtaken her face. It almost felt like their first encounter all over again.

"Dean," she repeated, opening her door wider. "What are you doing here?" Cassie tore her gaze away, looking beyond him into the night. The car was nowhere in sight. Huh. "Where's Tracee and Sam?"

"They got a little tied up. You know how they are," Dean replied. Cassie huffed out a laugh. Yes, she did know, courtesy of her best friend. Tracee Noland did love to spill intimate details regarding her relationship with Sam Winchester. "We were working a job nearby—thought we'd come to visit. After, of course, they get their kicks."

" _Oh_? I didn't hear anything strange going around here," Cassie mentioned.

"It was a state over. We dealt with it," Dean said.

"Well, I guess you should come in. They're probably going to be awhile," she stated, stepping aside, so that Dean could walk forward.

"My thoughts exactly," he said, moving from the porch, pass the threshold and herself. A jolt of something shot through her. But it was gone in the next instant. What had that been? Awareness? Of what? "Cassie…?" She shuddered, shaking the queries from her thoughts. Most likely, it had come from the cool breeze. "You alright?" Quietly, she took a deep breath before focusing on Dean.

"I'm fine," she told him. "Just a little out of it." She shut the front door, and then ushered him further into the house. Dean followed her into the kitchen. "I've been working on something since I woke up this morning. I didn't have a chance to eat—that's all." Dean grunted in acknowledgement, but chose not to question her answer. "You want a beer?" Cassie asked as she opened the refrigerator door.

"You drink beer now?"

"No, but I had a few friends over. There's leftovers," she responded, making a grab for a brown bottle. Cassie shut the refrigerator door, turning back to Dean, who had made himself comfortable at the island counter on one of the stools. He had even removed his jacket, revealing a simple white t-shirt, and a buttoned plaid shirt over it. As she set the bottle in front of him, her eyes darted to his forearm. The sleeves had been rolled up, so she could see a nasty burn there, red and blistered, on his skin. It was the oddest shape, and Cassie couldn't help but think she had seen it somewhere before. "Does that hurt?" she questioned, fingers lightly tracing the mark as she sat down on the seat next to him.

"No," Dean answered. He pulled his right arm away and picked up the beer bottle. " _Nah_ , just-just had a run in with a stove." He laughed it off, but Cassie narrowed her eyes, raking her brain with trying to remember where she had seen that particular mark. "So how have you been, huh? Had some friends over? What kinda friends? Anyone in particular I should know about?" Cassie knitted her brow, a teasing smirk crossing her face. She rested her arm against the counter, leaning towards Dean.

"Now why would you need to know what type of friends I invite over?" she asked.

" _Ahh_ , after all we've been through, I can't know if there's a little… competition coming my way?" Dean questioned just as teasing.

"Competition…?" Cassie repeated, arching her left brow.

"Yeah, competition." Dean leaned forward, placing his hand over hers. "I mean it, Cassie. You know I can be more for you." Cassie shifted her gaze to their hands for a few seconds, realizing that her heart had stumbled out of tempo within the confines of her chest. The easy flirting had turned serious, and her throat felt like it was closing up. She looked back at Dean, into his tender green eyes, and she saw all the sweet memories they shared. Tempting and safe—that was what his eyes held. But… not for her. Dean Winchester was not hers. Even when they had been together.

Somewhere out there, there was someone coming for her. Her… Champion. A Champion she had already dreamt about. A Champion who would watch her shine and become hers. That had been what the dream had told her just a few months ago. Admittedly, when Tracee had told her about Slayers and their Champions, she had been a little put off by it. Destined protectors of the Slayer line seemed too farfetched. After thinking about it, though, wasn't she, herself, a destined protector? An activated one, really, but it had been the same concept. The  _Powers That Be_ , which she had actually found information on, had intervened and made it so that the mates of Slayers would be Champions. The day would come that she would claim another, and it wouldn't be fair to Dean if they were to form an attachment different than friendship. She had made the mistake of breaking his heart before. She would not do that to him again.

"I think… we should stick to what we know, Dean," Cassie said. "Light flirting is all we can be for each other. All we should be."

"Cassie, you're not hearing me," Dean said, moving closer. His fingers wrapped around her wrist and squeezed. Aggressively. "I care about you. I've always cared about you, and it won't change."

"I care about you, too… but we're not good for each other. We both know that," she said.

Dean laughed then, but it wasn't pleasing to the ears. It sent a chill down her spine. Cassie had never heard anything like it from him. "Well, aren't you a poisonous bitch?" he said. Dean had said it so casually that it had taken a moment to process. Even in their worst arguments, he had never resorted to name-calling. Cassie frowned, attempting to take back her hand, but Dean held fast, grip increasing to the point of pain. He yanked her forward. So close their faces were a hair's length away. Again, she attempted to pull away, but the strength he possessed kept her arm still. She had applied a bit more strength, so he shouldn't have been able to- "You're like… meat on a hook, dangling in front of my face, and I'm just another thing, watching it dance. Want to hunt it, devour it, but knowing I could never really capture it, and yet I still grab for it. But I'm not here to play that game with you today."

"Dean, let me go," Cassie attempted.

"You really are something, you know?" he continued, ignoring the demand. His other hand reached up, the back of his index finger stroking the side of her face. "A full package that no other woman could live up to. This one has brains, but isn't as feisty. That one is drop-dead gorgeous, but can't make me laugh. That one over there is pretty and smart, but can't be a tiger  _and_  a kitten in bed. That one has a hellava sex drive, but she's a bore at conversations. See? You ruined me. Got inside and twisted me, burned me so bad that I'm not gonna let anyone else in—not like I let you in. God knows I've  _tried_. But here you are again, not taking responsibility for that." He laughed again, but it was as spiteful as the first. "Just how many times are you gonna reject me, huh? You're toxic, Cassie, and I just keep coming back to you anyway."

The words were cutting, piercing her on the inside and rattling her heart. Cassie's lower lip trembled because she had felt truth in those words. She had known he had been hurt. Dean had blurted that out years after their breakup, but she hadn't known it had shaped every single one of his relationships after. Maybe… Maybe was poison, and had been injecting herself into him despite knowing about this ordained mate of hers...

But the jig was up, and she realized that, although Dean was in front of her, it was not Dean at all. That little surge of awareness she had felt at the door had to have been a second of demonic nature being displayed, though she hadn't seen it. "Who are you?" Cassie asked, willing thoughts of regret away. Hopefully, there would be another time to dwell on the subject. But for now, she had to figure out what had happened. "Why did you come here?" A truly savage grin spread slowly across Dean's face.

"Wow, first Sammy, and now you—I'm amazed there's so many smart people around this guy," the demon said. "You don't need to know who I am, sugar tits. As to why I'm here—well, you're the bait. See, it'll only be a matter of time before one of them realizes where I am, and they'll come to rescue you. When they get here, I'm going to kill you all. First those two, and then you. I'll take my time with you, though. I'm gonna watch you bleed out. And then just as the light is about to leave your pretty, pretty brown eyes,  _I'll_  leave, knowing that Dean will hold your dying body and not being able to do a thing to save you. Just like he can't do a thing to save his brother. He'll be so overcome with grief and guilt, he'll probably kill himself in the end. Because if there's one thing I know about Dean Winchester, and not with help from him being my meat suit… it's he can't be alone. It's written all over him. And  _that_  is how you use three stones to kill one bird."

Cassie clenched her jaw, pressing her lips tightly together. The stinging in her eyes grew just a bit sharper, but she willed away the threat of tears. Despite the feeling of her throat constricting, she forced her mouth to open. "That's a good plan," she whispered. "I'm not sure what Dean did to you to make you go so far in making him suffer, but it's a good plan in theory."

"In theory?" the demon repeated, raising both eyebrows. "I'd say it's working pretty so far." He stroked her face again, sliding fingers into her curls. "I guess it didn't have to be  _this_  way. If you weren't so smart, I would have let you have him one more time..." He shrugged, uncaringly. "Or maybe this was the only way this could go. Either way, I get what I want."

"Sorry, there's one thing you neglected to realize," Cassie stated. The demon tilted his head, expression patronizingly curious. "I don't need to be rescued. Only kept alive." She slowly licked her lips. " _Deus_!" She hastily stood and snatched her hand away just as the demon choked and spewed out the contents of Dean's stomach. Mostly liquid.

"You bitch!" he roared, lifting his face to glare at her, eyes shaded pitch black.

"Right back at you," Cassie retorted, suppressing a violent shudder. She could now clearly sense what she had before. A demon. "You picked the wrong bait." She reared back her hand, fingers curled into a fist, and then she slammed her knuckles against Dean's temple. The demon fell to the floor and did not get back up. Cassie sighed out, shuddering, only then realizing that her heart was beating too quickly. She took a moment to collect herself, fingers roughly rubbing her fingers against her forehead. Then she breathed again, more steady now, before reaching into the back pocket of jeans. She pulled out her cell phone and dialed a memorized number. Gaze never leaving the unconscious form on her kitchen floor, she listened to the ringing. Eventually, someone picked up.

" _Cassie, now's not a good time_ ," it was Sam's weary voice, not Tracee's, which came through.

"Funny you should say that, Sam," Cassie said. "Because I'm having a  _doozy_  of a time right now, too." The sarcasm came out more heated than she had wanted, but hey, not exactly feeling like sunshine right about now. "You want to explain to me how your brother got possessed?!"

0-0

"He sure did a number on you, cupcake."

"Tell me something I  _don't_  know," Tracee said through clenched teeth. Then winced as another shard was pulled from her gut. "Careful…!" she hissed. The older man tending to her injury gave her an unimpressed look. Clearly, he wasn't indulging in her whiny behavior. However, for the record, it was painful. Sam had done his best, patching up on the road, but some of the glass had remained. Now, at the home of Bobby Singer, the owner of the house was doing a much better job cleaning the stab wound. He dabbed at the puncture wounds with a cloth, and then worked to rewrap her lower abdomen.

"Oh,  _boohoo_ …!" Bobby admonished, tightening the wrap. "For a magical girl who saves the world, you sure do know how to cry."

Groaning, Tracee lowered the hem of her shirt. She didn't bother to sit up, least she strain herself too much. She still hadn't eaten anything, so more than likely, she would be out of commission for a little while longer—probably for days. She shouldn't have been so flustered to the point of not getting enough to eat, but it had happened regardless of logic. Dean had gone missing, and it had shook the logic right out of her. Worrying about Dean had made her sloppy, which in turn had made it easy to get the drop on her. She might as well have drove that broken bottle into her own flesh. Hadn't seen it coming. Hadn't even thought about it. And with the life they led, she and Sam should have both thought about it.

Speaking of Sam, he was pacing, still worried. Bobby didn't pay too much attention to him as he walked by to get rid of the bloody cloth and tweezers. The call had come hours ago, alerting them of Dean's—the demon's—current location. The demon had gone after Cassie Robinson. Foolish mistake, but it worked in their favor. A plan had been made for her fellow Slayer to bring Dean's body to Bobby's house because she did not know how to exorcise the demon herself. So with daylight approaching, they all waited for the arrival. The sound of her cell phone beeping caught Tracee's attention. She reached for it, wincing in discomfort. She flipped it open to see that Cassie had sent a text.

"She's pulling up now," Tracee announced. Sam sighed heavily, and then abruptly left the room. Once she heard the front door shut, she moved to stand up from the couch. Glowering the whole way, she made her way to Bobby's den where the giant devil's trap was on the ceiling. By the time she had made it, Sam was already tying down Dean's wrist to a chair. Then she spotted Cassie, arms folded tight against her as she watched the two Winchesters. "Hey, home girl…"

"Tracee." Cassie turned towards her, a slight smile forming. She walked forward, spreading her arms. Tracee grit her teeth as they embraced. It hurt, but it was good to see her fellow Slayer in person again. "What happened to you?" Cassie questioned, releasing her.

"Didn't quite figure out the possession thing until Samuel told me," Tracee replied. "And by then…" She trailed off, thinking back to that painful moment. Not just the stabbing itself, but the actual situation. Her brain hadn't been able to grasp that Dean had turned on her. It had been a whirlwind of confusion and hurt, made worse by the glass digging into her. That few seconds had felt like a lifetime. "Good thing one of us figured it out."

"Right."

"Hey, what'd you do to keep him out of it?" Sam asked, stepping away from his brother's body. "I'm surprised he hasn't woken up yet."

" _Uh_ … Chloroform…" The hesitance in which she said it led Tracee to believe that Dean might actually have a concussion when he woke up. The wide-eyed look Cassie threw her way was only further indication. "So… how do we do this?" she asked, hoping for a change of subject.

"Well, when he wakes up, we can start the exorcism," Sam answered. "He needs to be awake to hear the words." Cassie nodded in understanding, and then focused on the unconscious demon. This would be her first exorcism. "Don't worry. It won't hurt Dean at all." Then his eyes shifted to Tracee. "Maybe you should sit down," he suggested.

"I'm fine," Tracee assured him. "I need to know why this happened."

Sam nodded his head, and then stood beside her just as Bobby entered the room, large metal pail in his hands. He said that it was holy water. They didn't have a gun to threaten with, so it would have to be the next best thing. They needed to know why the yellow-eyed demon was targeting them like this. She could see the benefits of possessing Dean, but none of those espionage tactics played out. Instead, they had gotten shot at. Sam could have been wounded fatally as they were escaping. Why would a demon  _purposely_  try to kill him when he's supposed to be a part of some big plan to unleash evil on the world? Accidents, sure, there was no accounting for those, but to actively send someone to kill. Capital D wasn't making sense with his orders. Tracee aimed to find out what exactly the intent was, and make sure that it did not happen again.

"We ready for this?" Bobby asked, opening a book he had grabbed.

" _Shyeah_ , wake him up," Tracee instructed. Sam took a couple steps forward, halting directly in front of the chair. Taking a deep breath, he raised his hand and smacked his brother's cheek. The demon groaned, gaze slowly adjusting to new surroundings. Sam backed away again, causing familiar green eyes to finally focus.

"Sam…" His eyes shifted to Tracee. " _Huh_. So Slayers really are more durable, after all? Shame." Tracee chose not to response. The demon didn't wait for it, anyway. His eyes moved over to Cassie. "And you— _such_  a bitch." Cassie scoffed, folding her arms again. The demon paid no mind. He looked towards the ceiling. A heavy sigh left his mouth as he relaxed in the chair. "Well, the gang's all here. What are you gonna do now that I'm tied up?"

"That depends on your answers," Tracee said.

" _Ooh_ , a little bit of torture? Careful not to bruise this fine packaging," the demon said.

"No need for the warning. This type won't hurt Dean in the least," Tracee mentioned. "You, though, are in for wild time." The demon's lazy smirk showed that he was not concerned whatsoever. "You know, I'm not usually down with torture, but you picked the wrong person to possess."

"Funny you should mention that. Dean wasn't my original goal," the demon said. "It was Sammy boy.  _Oh_ , the fun I would had in that body." He chuckled, grin lingering on his face. Then he sighed as though disappointed. "But Dean was much more amendable. So I went with the leftovers."

"What does  _that_  mean?" Sam almost growled. The demon shrugged. Obviously, he was enjoying how worked up Sam was getting. Too agitated, he grabbed a plastic cup, dunked it in the metal bucket and then splashed the contents right in the demon's face. He threw his head back and howled as the holy water fried him. Like liquid against a hot iron, steam rose from the skin. "Enough of your bullshit— _talk_!" The demon hissed through clenched teeth, hands squeezing the arms of the chair like they were lifelines.

"Dean's still my meat puppet!" he managed to rasp. He glared at them, finally losing the amusement. "I'll make him bite off his tongue!"

" _Try_  it! I'll stick a funnel in that mouth and have you guzzling holy water!" Tracee snarled, matching Sam's ire. Dean's eyes widened. Perhaps it was more than a little harsh—a bit like waterboarding—but this demon needed to realize what was at stake. Both Sam and Dean were at stake, and she could not tolerate that. "We're not playing your games! Tell us why you've done this! Why would Capital D give an order to come after Samuel with an intent to kill?!"

"You really think that's what this is about?!" he snarled, lurching forward. Tracee forced herself not to flinch. She knew it was the demon moving Dean's expression, but the pure hate in those eyes made her wholly uneasy. It was as if Dean was truly looking at her that way. "I don't give a rat's  _ass_  what-" He snorted. "-Capital D's orders are!"

"So you're acting  _alone_? What did we do to you to make you go so far?" Sam questioned. The demon suddenly became tight-lipped. Sam immediately dunked the cup back into the bucket of holy water. He flung the water on the demon, and once again, the howls of pain bounced off the walls. It was the demon, but it was Dean's voice. Tracee had a hard time not flinching at the sound. "Answer me!"

"You three  _sent me to Hell_!" The shout caused all movement to stop. Only the panting from the demon could be heard in the silence that followed. Holy water dripped from his chin as he glared. "All that I had to hold on to was that I would climb out one day and that I was gonna torture you, nice and slow, like pulling the wings off an insect!" It dawned on her like a snap. The familiar way of talking should have been the first clue.

"Megara," Tracee guessed. And suddenly, she was annoyed. "That's  _it_? You did all this to enact some petty  _revenge_?" Possessing Dean, making Sam feel like shit, hurting her, and using Cassie as bait. All this drama over a grudge? Ridiculous. But… It meant that this demon hadn't been following orders. She had been doing this all on her own. It also meant that interrogating her for new information on the Demon would be pointless. Was it wrong she had half a mind to do it, anyway? "Sir Robert-" Tracee began, keeping her eyes on the glaring demon.

"It's Bobby," he corrected automatically.

"-If you would please," she continued. "I'm sure we're all tired of these games." Bobby grunted, and then began reading in Latin. The demon twitched as the words began taking effect. Snarling and viciously snapping, the demon flexed against the binds. "Megara, if you can comprehend what I'm saying through the pain of being sent back to your hell dimension, I want to make something perfectly clear. If you appear in front of me again with some inane Hamlet-like plot of revenge, I  _will_  kill you. There will  _not_  be another chance to come back, you understand me?"

The demon growled loudly, struggling against the rope. Then, to Tracee's surprise, the demon abruptly threw back his head, letting out a crazed belittling laugh. Bobby, too, had been thrown for a loop, so much so that he had stopped reading. "Well, aren't you an arrogant piece of work, Slayer?!" the demon snapped, focusing on her again. Tracee narrowed her eyes, confused. Even as Bobby continued reading, the Latin words didn't seem to be distressing the demon at all now. With a start, she realized that she couldn't sense the demonic pressed being ripped away from Dean's body. " _Oops_! Doesn't seem to be working," Meg stated. Again, Bobby stopped. "See, I learned a few new tricks." Then the demon lowered Dean's head and began speaking in Latin. The exorcism failed.

" _Uh_ , Tracee, I was honestly expecting head-spinning!" Cassie shouted over the growing volume of Meg's foreign words. The fire behind the bound demon suddenly flared and lashed out, causing everyone to flinch away in surprise. Then the room began shaking. Lights flickered. Unnatural wind blew. "What the hell's happening?!" Tracee's brain hurried attempted to translate the Latin words to find out what the Meg intended. Shit. It was some sort of environment disruption. She shouldn't have been able to do that.

Sam stepped forward, shouting that he had seen something earlier. He roughly moved the right sleeve, revealing a strange symbol on his forearm. "That's a binding link!" Bobby stated. All eyes turned his way. The Latin words continued to spew from Meg. "It's like a lock! She's locked herself into Dean's body!"  _Shit_. Tracee nearly stomped her foot in frustration. Meg was really something else—going this far!

"What do we do?!" Sam demanded to know.

"I don't know!" Bobby shouted right back.

Again, Meg threw back Dean's head. A cracking sound was heard, damn near booming. Tracee looked up to see that the ceiling had splintered. The devil's trap had been distorted. "There." Tracee looked back down to see the demon staring right back at her, black eyes showing a taunting triumph. "That's better." With a jerk of Dean's head, Bobby was suddenly sent backwards, flying right out the window. Another head jerk caused Sam to be thrown backwards into the room behind them. Another yanked Cassie, slamming her against the staircase. And finally, Tracee, herself, was knocked off her feet, her back colliding with a far corner in the room.

"Shit!" she groaned loudly. She had landed face first on the floor, and the impact had gone right to her stab wound. By the time she attempted to work through the pain, Tracee already heard footsteps approaching.

"That's  _it_ —she says—as if Hell is a fucking vacation!" Meg growled. A hand grabbed her shoulder and roughly turned her over. The demon kneeled in front of Tracee, fisting the front of her shirt. "Why do you think people describe the worst possible thing as Hell,  _huh_?" Meg, without warning, punched her. The strike had almost completely threw her senses off balance. "See, Hell is like,  _uh_ …" Another hard punch to the face blinded her and raked her body with pain. "Well, it's like Hell. Even for demons." Another punch succeeded in breaking her nose. Tracee could feel warm blood sliding down her nostrils. "It's a prison," Meg went on. "Made of bone and flesh and blood and fear." Knuckles rammed into her cheekbone, and she was nearly certain that it shattered. Her hair was grabbed and she was forced to look Meg in the eye. "And you sent me back there like it was nothing."

"W-Would… Would…" Tracee choked and gagged, trying to focus on Meg with blurry vision. "W-W-Would you… like an-an apology?"

" _Oooh_ , that's funny!" Meg retorted, smiling nastily. "You're a hoot—a big ol' riot!" Fingers dug into Tracee's stab wound. She screamed out. The pain seemed to stretch to every single nerve in her body. Tracee pressed her mouth shut, groaning through clenched teeth. Perhaps she shouldn't have been cheeky in that moment. "You know, you talk an awful lot for someone who's so desperate for Dean's approval. Big, bad Slayer puts on a show, but really you're just a scared little girl looking for validation from a man. That's how all you Slayers are, I hear. Deep down, there's  _nothing_  different about you from previous Slayers. Deep down, you know it. Deep down,  _Dean_  knows it. He can't protect you, Champion or not.  _No one_  can protect you, and you know that. I can see it in your eyes. You'll die, alone and scared, just like them."

As she looked into Dean' eyes, Tracee felt oncoming tears. She knew that it wasn't  _him_  saying these things, but this close, it sure as hell felt like it. And it hurt. Almost as bad as the beating his fist inflicted. Tracee breathed heavily, wishing that she could just run away and hide. She wished she never heard those words because… maybe they were true. Shit.  _Maybe it was true_. Meg grinned cruelly, rearing back to deliver another punch. However, the fist never came. Cassie had appeared behind Dean and grabbed onto the wrist. With her other hand, she dragged her nails down the skin of Dean's forearm, leaving streaks of blood.

A howl of pain erupted from Dean's mouth, and then black smoke shot towards the ceiling. The shouting didn't stop until all of the smoke seemed to have left him. Dean dropped to the floor, no longer feeling the weight of Meg's presence. Both Slayers flinched hard, witnessing as the demonic essence disappeared into the fireplace and up the chimney. Once she could no longer feel Meg, Tracee squeezed her eyes shut, gasping out and holding her stomach. "Tracee…!" The familiar sound of Sam's voice reached her ears before she felt his frantic hands on her shoulders, lifting her into a sitting position. She winced, but didn't resist the comfort of his body. "Oh, God! I hit my head, I-" His hands slid against her cheeks. "I should've-"

"I'm fine, darling…" Tracee said, forcing herself not gag. She swallowed, struggling to open her eyes. "Sir Robert—he's-"

"I'm fine, cupcake, don't you worry about me," Bobby's voice caused her to slowly turn her attention to the older man. He looked pretty okay, considering he had been thrown through a window. There were only minor cuts on his face that would heal quickly. Good. A sharp inhale from the middle of the room was the next to draw her attention. It seemed Dean had come to and was wildly looking around, clearly bewildered by his current surroundings.

"It's okay, Dean. You're here. You're safe," Cassie assured the older Winchester, pressing her palm against his cheek. The confusion did not leave his expression, but his shoulders were no longer tense. He still gripped his forearm, which Tracee could imagine stung quite a bit. Her fellow Slayer must have distorted the symbol on Dean's skin. Quick thinking on her part. Maybe Tracee would have thought of something like that—something so simple—if she hadn't been so… She squeezed her eyes shut again. No. It was over. No use thinking about it so intensely. Still, a seed had been planted, and she could not deny that.

"What the hell did I miss?" Dean questioned.

No one seemed keen on answering him quickly.

0-0

Dean was in a state of absolute shock. For the past half hour, he had listened to what had happened, according to other people. They had clearly been reluctant to reveal everything, but what they had revealed had been  _bad_. It hadn't been him doing all those things, but at the same time… He had hurt them. All of them. Tracee took the worst of it, physically. Boy, did she look it. The tiny tank had been stabbed and beaten because of him. Cassie had been targeted and had been intended as bait. Sam. Sammy wouldn't even look him in the eye. Whether that had to do with his older brother putting his hands on his girlfriend or whatever had been said while possessed remained unclear at the moment. Hell, it was probably both.

He could hardly remember anything. The things he could remember, were foggy at best. Completely blurred together at worst. All because he had gone and gotten himself possessed. By Meg. "There, I'm done," Cassie announced, voice drawing Dean's attention. He turned to her, glancing down at this arm wrapped in gauze. It had been a punch to the gut when he woke up to see Cassie. Like the wind had been knocked out of him. He had realized in an instant that she had been the one to bring him back. Her fingers lightly brushed against the covered part of his arm. Then she sighed, setting the rolled gauze down on the desk. Both of them were sitting on the desk. "Sorry about it."

"I'm not," Dean stated. "Hell, I deserved worse."

"It wasn't you, Dean," Cassie stated. "None of it."

Dean grunted, turning away. Even if it hadn't been his own actions, they had still happened. And people he cared about had been hurt because of it. Dean focused on the couple on the other side of the room. Sam sat on a cushioned stool, carefully applying ointment to Tracee's belly. She was laid out on the couch, holding an ice pack to her face. The blood had been cleaned up, but already he could see bruises starting to form. It had been his hands that had done that to her. In a way, some of it had been him.

"Man, Trace, why didn't you hit me back?" Dean questioned in a mumble.

"Next time, dork," Tracee replied, not bothering to remove the ice from her face. "And don't think you're getting away without being my servant for, at least, a week." A soft chuckle left Sam's mouth as he began lowering Tracee's blood-stained shirt. Apparently, he had finished redressing the stab wound. Dean huffed out a laugh himself, relieved that neither of them would hold a grudge. Even though they had every right to. Bobby entered the room then. He appeared a little off as he fiddled with something in his hand.

"What's wrong, Bobby?" Dean asked. Tracee slowly sat up, groaning until she was upright. Sam, too, moved to face Bobby, curious.

"You ever hear of a hunter named Steve Wandell?" he replied with a question.

"No." The hurried way Sam answered made Dean glance towards his brother. His shoulders were stiff with tension. "Sorry, Bobby, not ringing any bells." The man narrowed his eyes, almost warily. He probably noticed the reaction, too. "Why do you ask?"

"Just heard from a friend. Wandell's dead—murdered in his own house," Bobby stated. Dean pressed his lips together as the pieces fell in place. Wandell—that had been the guy he had murdered. Meg had, but it had been his hands, hadn't it? That was one of the cloudy bits he could remember. From the corner of his eye, Dean saw both Sam and Tracee exchange a look, one he couldn't figure out. It was like they had a two second conversation before looking towards Bobby again. "But you wouldn't know anything about that, would you?"

"I'm afraid not," Tracee spoke up.

"Good," Bobby said. "Keep it that way. Wandell's buddies are looking for someone or something to string up. They're not gonna slow down to listen to reason. You understand what I'm saying?" He gave the two of them a meaningful look. Dean frowned, lowering his head. Sam cleared his throat, and then stood up from the cushioned stool.

"Yes, sir, we understand," he said as he held his hand out for Tracee to latch on to. She was pulled into a standing position behind him. "So, I guess, we'd better hit the road. Thanks again, Bobby."

"Here, take these," he told them, dropping what seemed to be charms in each of their palms. Dean examined the tiny flat circle, noting the design on it. "They're charms," Bobby explained. "They'll fend off possession. That demon's still out there. This will stop it from getting back up in you."

"Well, that sounds vaguely dirty," Dean commented, earning a snort of amusement from Cassie. Keeping a grin to himself, he nodded at Bobby. "But thanks."

"You're welcome," Bobby said, obviously going to ignore the comment. "You be careful—all of you."

After saying their farewells, the four of them headed out. Sam helped Tracee make her way towards the Impala. Dean watched them, stopping right at the edge of the porch. He rubbed his forehead and let out a sigh. The two were too far away to notice. "Hey," Cassie caught his attention with a light nudge from her elbow. He turned towards her, preparing to plaster on a fake grin. "Dean." As though knowing his intention, she called him out on it before he could. "What is it?" she asked. It took a few seconds, but eventually, he opened his mouth.

"That guy," Dean began, shifting uncomfortably. His line of sight focused on his brother and Tracee. The two of them were on the passenger side of the car, having their own conversation. "I don't… I don't remember a whole lot, but I was awake for that part. Feels like a bad dream, and I keep,  _uh_ … thinking about what if Meg hadn't waited? What if she made me kill someone a little closer to home?" He looked at her then, and the annoying feeling of his throat swelling suddenly made itself known. "If I had killed Sam or-"

"You didn't," Cassie interrupted, softly. She bit her lower lip, and then took his right hand with her left. "Come on, Dean—you're not a 'what if' kinda guy. It's awful what this demon did while using your body, but it still happened. Use what happened, like you do, to make sure it won't happen again. But  _brooding_  is not you." Dean glanced down at their connected hands, and then back up again. Her eyes were candid and understanding. Calm and certain. She should have freaked about this, but here she was reassuring him.

"Thanks, Cassie," Dean murmured, throat swelling for a different reason entirely. He cleared his throat, free hand lifting to rub his jaw. She gave him a small smile, and then leaned forward, lips catching his cheek. Cassie reared back, taking her hand back. Dean almost wished she hadn't done that. And this time, he couldn't blame it on whiskey. She was making him  _want_  again. But no. Not this time. He needed to keep something like that to himself. It wouldn't be fair to either one of them. And so, Dean took a silent deep breath, and clamped down on the familiar urge to spill. Instead, he cleared his throat again, and put on a grin. "… But now that you mention it, I do have an idea to make sure this doesn't happen again."

"What?" Cassie asked, raising her eyebrows.

"Well," Dean began, digging through his front pocket. He pulled out the trinket that Bobby had given him. "These things are small—I'd probably lose it before we get to another motel." He turned, looking towards the two standing next to the Impala. "Sam! Trace!" he shouted. They both shifted their attention to him. Dean held up the charm and wiggled it, though they probably couldn't see. "How about making a pit stop?" At their confused expressions, his grin only widened further.

By the time night came, all four of them sported matching tattoos.

0-0


	37. Cavemen & Astronauts

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> After the last, heavy, chapter, this chapter was a joy to write. I thoroughly enjoyed the humor in this one.

“Sir Robert…!” Tracee greeted, nudging the door shut with one hand while setting her katana down on the counter with the other. Her entrance caused three pairs of eyes to shift in her direction. Bobby sat on the edge of one of the beds. Sam had dragged a chair over to the bed while Dean had sat on the bed opposite of Bobby. “You’re already here.”

“It’s Bobby,” he corrected as he stood from the bed he sat on. He gave her a nod of greeting and a slight quirk of his lips. “Really, I just got here a few minutes ago. How have you been?”

“… Fine,” Tracee replied, approaching the three. She gestured towards the bed he had been sitting on, silently urging him to sit again. Once he was comfortable again, or as comfortable as he could be on the bed of a motel, she continued speaking. “So have they already told you about this bizarre case we’ve been working on?”

“We were just about to tell him before you walked in,” Sam informed.

“I wasn’t asking you,” Tracee retorted. Sam narrowed his eyes, folding his arms over his chest and grumbling to himself. His grumbles were mostly ignored, save for the curious glance Bobby gave. “Since you’ve had many years of hunting and countless knowledge, we thought to contact you. Sorry if we pulled you from something important.”

“It’s no bother,” Bobby stated. “Now, start at the beginning.”

“Like I was saying,” Sam began. “It all started when we caught wind of an obit. See, a professor took a nosedive from a fourth story window. Only, there’s a campus legend that the building’s haunted, so we pretexted as reports from the local paper…”

* * *

Sam made a show of being intrigued by the girl that sat across from him. Currently, he was in a bar, in Springfield, Ohio, gathering clues for this latest case he had stumbled on. The story went that a professor at a local college had committed suicide, which hadn’t made sense to anyone who knew him. This girl in front of him had confirmed that the guy was married with kids, had tenure at the college, and apparently led a wholesome life. She had been a student in his _Ethics and Morality_ class, and practically gushed that his book had been a big deal. Then, she went on to say that his death might not have been a suicide. That was the information that had peaked his true interest.

So Sam sat up straight and listened intently as the girl, Jennifer, told him about Crawford Hall’s ghost story origin. Apparently, a student had been dating her professor around thirty years ago. An affair, really, and when the professor had broken it off, she had gone and thrown herself from a window. Admittedly, that tidbit of information would be grounds for a standard haunting. A spurned lover suddenly dying—being so dramatic like that—probably came back to wreak havoc on anyone that might had the same type of situation that happened. However, Jennifer went on to say that the story included the girl jumping from room six hundred and sixty nine. She had to explain around the last digit being flipped upside down to form triple six.

So she obviously believed in the hype about the haunting. But the embellishment of room 669 told Sam that the girl had been going off strictly what she had heard from someone else. Not exactly a key witness as she hadn’t seen anything herself. The information wasn’t really sufficient, and he doubted Jennifer could bring anything else to the table. At least, she had pointed towards the next direction. A dead girl might be the reason for the untimely death. They would just have to scope out the professor’s office to see if they could find anything for further verification of a ghost.

Politely, Sam excused himself, and then stood up from the chair. Quickly, he looked around for Dean and Tracee. He spotted Dean over at the bar, downing shots. Tracee was still over at one of the pool tables, talking to some guy named Curtis, who had also been a student of this professor. Maybe she was getting more information, so Sam made a beeline for his brother. Clearly, Dean had not been worried about gathering information from another student like he was supposed to be. Sam approached him just as his brother slammed a third shot glass against the counter.

“Dean, what are you-? What are you drinking?” he questioned.

“I don’t know, man,” Dean slurred, and then let out a disgusting burp. Sam grimaced. “I think they’re called _Purple Nurples_.” Before Sam could comment on his brother’s choice of liquor, a wail of pain caught his attention. He turned because the sound had come from where he had seen Tracee. His girlfriend calmly headed their way, leaving behind Curtis, who was grabbing his arm and staring at Tracee’s back in shock. “What was that about?” Dean asked once she came to a stop.

“He bored me,” Tracee replied, voice full on British. She crossed her arms. “What’s our next move?”

“… Well, I was thinking we could check out the professor’s office,” Sam answered, glancing towards Curtis again, who had turned tail and run.

“Oh, no, no, no!” Dean protested. “I can’t right now! I’ve got some feisty little wildcat on the hook.” He thumbed behind him at a blonde woman. Sam tilted his head to get a good look at her. From her fishnet stockings to the crop top, even from the back, he realized this was a chick Dean would definitely go for in his drunken state. “I’m about to— _zzzt_ —reel her in. Here—I’ll introduce you.” Before Sam could stop him, Dean turned around, catching the girl’s attention. “Starla! Hey, Starla!” The girl turned around as she threw back her own shot. Her hair was more messy than curled, probably because she was already hammered, judging by her sloppy expression. “This is my shuttle co-pilot, Major Tom, and our Flight Engineer, Angela. Tom and Angela, _Starla_.”

“ _Enchante_ …!” the girl giggled, wrapping an arm around Dean’s neck.

“… Hi,” Sam replied, not nearly as enthused with the introduction.

“I am right offended,” Tracee muttered. Starla did not hear because she was too busy ‘trying to keep her liquor down.’ Once she managed that, she giggled and wrapped her arm around Dean’s neck again. Tracee sighed heavily, rolling her eyes while his brother went on grinning, completely not minding the mess that had latched on to him.

* * *

“ _Whoa_! _Whoa_! _Whoa_!” Dean cut in, more than a little annoyed. “Hold on a minute!”

“What?” Sam asked, confused.

“Come on, dude! That’s not what happened!”

“No?” Sam replied, drily. “So you never drank a _Purple Nurple_?”

“… Yeah, maybe that,” Dean admitted. “But I don’t say things like ‘feisty little wildcat,’ and her name wasn’t _Starla_!”

“Then what was it?”

“I don’t know!”

“Wasn’t it Stella?” Tracee spoke up.

“Oh, like we’re gonna go by what _you_ think her name is,” Sam retorted.

“Look—whatever her name was, she was classy,” Dean interrupted before Tracee could snap back. He turned his attention back to Bobby. “A _real_ classy chick. She was a grad student— _Anthropology and Folklore_. We were talking about local ghost stories…”

* * *

 

 Standing at the bar, she couldn’t keep her eyes off him. Dean had been chatting with this chick for a good five minutes now, and she had made her intentions very clear with her unwavering piercing gaze. Black heels, black stockings, little black dress that showed off her ample bosom. She was the kind of chick that wore a bit of makeup to enhance. The type of chick who knew who she wanted, how to get it, and flaunt it if need be. And she had had her eye on him since the moment Dean had walked into the bar. Smoking hot. The girl, smiling coyly, lifted her shot glass, prompting Dean to do the same with his.

“Here’s to…” she began.

“Here’s to us,” he said, clinking his glass with hers.

Dean downed his shot, watching as she did the same. Soft and demure, she drank her shot slowly, tilting her head back to swallow every last drop. She licked her lips as she set her glass on the counter. Once again, her eyes returned to him, looking as though she could barely restrain herself. “My God, you are _attractive_ ,” she purred, seconds away from reaching out to touch him.

“Thanks,” Dean smirked. “But no time for that now.” The girl let out a soft sigh of disappointment, but her focus remained her him. “You need to tell me about this urban legend. Please. Lives are at stake.”

“Sorry,” she breathed out. “I just can’t even concentrate. It’s like staring…” She paused, lifting her hand to slide around his neck. “… into the sun.” Her fingertips lightly dug in, scratching for a few seconds. It was a familiar tingle—one he hadn’t felt in a long time—but before he could really think about it, the girl’s fingertips stopped moving, uncurling to push. Their lips pressed together in a slow, sensual kiss. Man, it had been awhile since he did something like this. Just relaxing and kissing on a hot chick. Why had it been awhile exactly? How could he have stayed away from something like this for so long?

“Dean, _what_ do you think you’re _doing_?!”

A familiar, grating voice caused Dean to halt his advances. He broke away from the smoking hot chick, wondering how Sam could be so clueless. Anyone could see what he had been doing. Most people wouldn’t interrupt. Holding back a sigh, Dean dropped his hands from the girl’s hips, and then turned to face his brother. Despite the interruption, he remained calmed. “Sam, please,” he said. He lightly ran his thumb over his lower lip. “If you wouldn’t mind, just give me five minutes here.”

Sam didn’t have time to retort. A shout from the other side of the bar caused the both of them to shift their attention towards the pool tables. Dean witnessed Tracee slamming a guy against the green surface, holding him down with her fingers wrapped around his throat. He winced, knowing more than the guy’s back must have been bruised from the collision. “If’t be true thee wish to end thy pitiful life hither, then speaketh another word. I would doth to end it.” Everyone had stopped to stare at the spectacle. Even the music had stopped. But Tracee didn’t care. “Anon, art thee going to apologize? ‘r doth I has’t to maketh thee?” The guy in the red athlete’s jacket rapidly nodded his head in fear for his life. “Thither’s a valorous lad. Don’t maketh me findeth thou after this. Thou would rather not see me enchafed.”

Tracee removed her hand from the dude’s neck, and then sharply turned away, glaring at any who didn’t part to make room for her. The Slayer glare did well in having people move aside. The guy scrambled to leave the bar, clutching his abused neck as he did. Unconcerned, Tracee made her way over to them, folding her arms as she did. “Why’d you do that?” Dean questioned as she approached.

“The gent insulted mine character. Should I has’t hath left that gent wend unpunished? The poor fool didn’t giveth any valid information without intention. Thee would doth well not to question mine motives.” Dean made a face because honestly, he hadn’t caught any of that. “Concluded, be it, what is our next moveth?”

“I’m in the middle of something, so why don’t you two-?”

“Dean, this a very serious investigation!” Sam, in full Bitchface mode, rudely interrupted even though Dean had intended to be polite. “We don’t have time for any of your _blah, blah, blah_ … _Blah, blah, blah, blah_!”

“Thy brother’s right, Dean. Save thy vices until after we hath found what we cameth hither to doth,” Tracee said, firmly. Exasperated, Dean rolled his eyes. Both Sam and Tracee continued talking, but their voices blurred and faded as he turned back towards the smoking hot chick. She readily ignored the two and captured his lips once again.

* * *

 

“Right. And that’s how it _really_ happened!” Sam said sarcastically, nearly shouting. Dean only shrugged his shoulders. “I don’t sound like that, Dean!”

“I definitely didn’t use Elizabethan English!” Tracee protested. “And why do you both assume I physically assaulted that asshole?!”

“That’s what you guys sound like to me,” Dean said, carelessly. “Especially when you two get worked up.”

“Don’t listen to these dorks, Sir Robert,” Tracee asserted, turning towards Bobby. “This is how it _really_ went down.”

* * *

This was a waste of time, and Tracee was hard pressed to not rub her temple to show how much she despised speaking with this guy. Upon coming to this bar in Springfield, Ohio, just a few miles away from the college campus, the three of them had decided to split up to see if anyone knew anything about the supposed suicide. Sam had gone for a sweet-looking brunette. Dean had practically jogged over to the bar to talk with a cute blonde with wild crimped hair. Tracee, herself, had only stopped this guy in particular because he had been the most eye-catching. His red leather athlete’s jacket had been hard to miss. She was now regretting such a rash action.

This guy, Curtis, he had told her several times in the span of five minutes, had been a student’s of the late professor. However, he hadn’t been providing much insight in regards to what had happened. Not a witness. Not a concerned citizen with his own theories that somehow contributed to their work. Not even a single opinion on the dead guy. He had mentioned that he hadn’t even heard about the death until later because he had skipped out on classes for a couple of days. Curtis seemed more concerned with himself and himself wanted to see how far he could go with in _the jungle_. Cue eye roll. “… And you know, I’ve always liked watermelon, so that’s probably something we have in common,” the guy continued, so unaware of how short Tracee’s fuse had become. And that had been one of the tamest of his supposed flirtations.

“I actually don’t like watermelon, so…” Tracee trailed off, shifting her gaze away from the very handy pool stick that she might be able to use as a weapon.

“ _Huh_. That’s weird… How about chicken? Can’t go wrong with fried-”

“Okay, I’m going to stop you right there,” Tracee said, forcing a smile. “I’m going to do you a favor and give you some advice. This is not how you approach a woman of color. This is not how you approach _any_ woman, in fact. So let’s just forget you called me a jungle bunny amazon queen, and end this conversation before I get the police involved.”

“Hey, I’m just trying to get to know you!” Curtis exclaimed. “You’re blowing this all out of proportion!”

“Oh, Russell,” Tracee cooed. She leaned forward, dropping the smile. “When I mentioned the police being involved, I meant for murder.” His eyes widened in shock. “So run along before I grab my big black boyfriend and he shoots you.” With a yelp, Curtis ran away from her. Or rather her nonexistent gangsta boyfriend. Huffing lightly, she turned towards the bar. Upon seeing Sam talking with Dean, she folded her arms and began moving towards them. They both looked her way as she halted.

“Who’d you send packing?” Dean asked, voice sloppy like his grin.

“Are you drunk?” Tracee questioned instead. “We’re supposed to be working.”

“I _am_ working!” Dean said. He slung his arm around the blonde beside him and pulled her close to his side. The girl laughed nervously, pushing her large-framed glasses up with her middle finger. “Working on this cutie right here! Isn’t that right, Starla?”

“… _Um_ , it’s Stella,” she replied, fiddling nervously with the hem of her t-shirt. Rolling her eyes, Tracee removed Dean’s arm from around the poor girl. “He just wanted to know what was in the _Purple Nurples_. He didn’t think he could get drunk on them and-and so he drank like ten shots in rapid succession. Look, I’m flattered by the attention, but I really have to get back to work.” With a grateful nod towards Tracee, the girl took off somewhere. Dean whined and stretched his hand out towards where she had gone off to, but managed to trip over his own feet in the process. Embarrassing.

“Why you gotta run off or take all the girls I want?!” Dean complained. “I want sex, too!”

“Piss off, Dean!” Tracee found herself suddenly cross.

“Tracee, what happened with that guy?” Sam questioned. “He seemed pretty quick to get outta here. You know we can’t cause a scene, so whatever it was, I hope you didn’t _bitch, bitch, bitch, bitch, bitch, bitch_!” Tracee didn’t bother to translate the rest of his grilling because she was not in the mood.

“Right. Of course. What do we do now?”

* * *

“Hey!” Dean spoke up, offended. “I’m not some belligerent drunk who hits on unwilling women!”

“You’re also not a smooth operator, Dean,” Tracee retorted, glaring. “That girl couldn’t wait to get away!”

“I did not grill you like that!” Sam interjected before Dean could dispute. “And if you told me he hit on you-”

“ _Nothing_ would have changed! It was already handled!” Tracee stated. “It’s not like it was the first time something like this has happened!”

“Okay, what’s going on with you three?” Bobby questioned. Sam sighed out sharply, forcing himself to relax in his seat. He assured the man that nothing was going on. “Come on. All three of you are at each other’s throats.”

“ _Nah_ , see, if we were really at each other’s throats, one of us would be dead already,” Dean mentioned, standing up and heading over to the kitchen area. “Which, at this point, wouldn’t be so bad.”

“ _Two_ of us would be dead,” Tracee grumbled.

“Still wouldn’t be so bad,” Dean huffed.

“Look, it…” Sam sighed heavily. “We’ve just been on the road for too long. Tight quarters, all that. Don’t worry about it.” Bobby frowned, narrowing his eyes, but ultimately nodded his head. “So, anyway, we figured it might be a haunting so we went to check out the scene of the crime…”

* * *

They had to use disguises. It was a simple disguise—matching jackets with a company logo on them—but it had been enough for the on-duty janitor to let them in Crawford Hall this time of night. The man quietly led the three of them up to the room where the professor had jumped, pushed, or fallen from. Sam had a rising urge to fill the silence with conversation, so as they approached the door and the janitor began to unlock it, he opened his mouth. “So how long have you been working here?” he asked, politely. The man looked back him, eyebrow arching, but then he shrugged. The set of keys jangled and the click of the lock sliding out of place was heard even as the man began speaking.

“I’ve been mopping these floors for six years,” he replied. He pushed opened the door and flipped the light switch. “There you go.” He moved further into the room, followed closely by Sam, Dean, and Tracee. Sam immediately removed the EMF from his jacket pocket and powered it on. It whirred to life and cause the attention of the janitor. “What the heck’s that for?”

“Just finding wires in the walls,” Sam lied. Truthfully, the EMF wasn’t necessary, but it didn’t hurt to have a confirmation or backup to Tracee’s Slayer senses. Speaking of which, his girlfriend began moving throughout the room, brow puckered in concentration.

“Huh. Well, I’m not sure why you’re wiring up _this_ office,” he murmured, leaning against the archway. “Not gonna do the professor much good.”

“And why’s that, luv?” Tracee inquired, turning her attention to the dark-haired man.

“He’s dead,” he stated.

“So blasé about it, you are,” Tracee gave a smile as she walked by him. The man returned the smile with one of his own. His curious gaze followed her movements towards the desk. Sam narrowed his eyes, not sure what to make of that exchange.

“What happened?” Dean asked, distractedly moving to another side of the office. He disappeared around the corner, not entirely interested in the response.

“He went out the window—right there,” the janitor pointed to the window behind the desk.

“Yeah? Were you working that night?” Sam asked.

“I’m the one who found him,” he stated.

“You see it happen?”

“Nope. I just saw him come up here and… well…” The janitor seemed to find something amusing, and Sam picked right up on it. Suppressing his own grin, and not sure why he felt the urge to grin in the first place, he urged the man to go on. “He wasn’t alone.” Just then, Dean came back from the other side of the office, carrying a glass bowl of peanut brittle in one hand. He had already helped himself to quite a few of them judging by how stuffed his cheeks were. Despite how full his mouth was, Dean still managed—just barely—to ask who the professor had been with.

* * *

“Come on! I ate _one_ , maybe two!” Dean complained.

“And no one called anyone _luv_ , Sam!” Tracee grumbled.

“Just let me tell it, okay?” Sam retorted.

* * *

“He was with a young lady,” the janitor continued with a slight shrug of his shoulders. “I told the cops about her, but, _uh_ … guess they never found her.”

“A young lady, you say,” Tracee said, frowning. “Not his wife, I’m assuming, or a daughter?” The man shook his head, eyebrows raised with implication. Tracee rolled her eyes and sighed. “Wonderful. Perhaps this was simply poetic justice then.” The janitor snapped his fingers and pointed at her, nodding his head in agreement.

“She wasn’t the only one I’ve seen come up here,” he said. “I don’t mean to cast aspersions on a dead guy, but… Mr. Morality here? He brought _a lot_ of girls up here. Got more ass than a toilet seat.” Tracee’s frown deepened, and she suddenly swiped a book off the desk. The book had a picture of the late professor on the back of it. Dean, however, laughed outright, spraying spit and peanut brittle in front of him. Shaking his head in disbelief, Sam focused on the janitor again, who seemed more than a little tickled about it.

“So you saw this girl go in? But did you see her come out?” he questioned.

“Now that you mention it,” the janitor looked up in thought. “No.”

“Have you ever seen her before—around?” Sam asked. The janitor only shook his head. “One more thing, _uh_ … This building—it only has four stories, right? So there wouldn’t be a room 669?”

“Of course not. Why do you ask?”

“ _Ah_ , just curious. Thanks,” Sam said.

“Yes, thank you for your help,” Tracee smiled pleasantly. “We’ll take it from here.”

Dean went on chewing. The wet, sloppy sound of it made Sam think that perhaps it wasn’t peanut brittle after all. Probably something with caramel. Uncaringly, his brother continued looking throughout the room. Shaking his head, Sam began seriously looking as the janitor made his exit. The three ended up staying for a while, if only to go along with their disguises. In the end, they hadn’t found any signs of a haunting. Not with the EMF, and Tracee hadn’t sensed anything either. So emptied handed, the three of them returned to their motel room.

“Well, no traces of EMF, that’s for sure,” Sam stated the obvious as he opened the door. He stuffed the key to the room in his pocket, sitting down at the table. Dean grumbled about the room 669 being a load of crap, pulling a beer out of the refrigerator. He set one down for Sam, and then grabbed his own. Tracee quietly began removing her jacket as she headed over to the beds. “So what do you think? The professor’s just a jumper? Legend’s just a legend?”

“Judging from what Jared told us, it might have been an accident,” Tracee said. Jared probably hadn’t been the janitor’s name. Sam couldn’t even remember if he had told them his name, now that he thought about it. His girlfriend liked to pull names out of thin air, it seemed, regardless of if she had been told or not. “Girl took off, probably scared that he fell, and didn’t come back. Or she pushed him and ran away.” She sat down on the edge of the bed and let out a sigh. “Either way, not our department.”

“Yeah, but that janitor also said that he didn’t see her leave the office,” Dean mentioned. He took a few gulps before setting down the dark green bottle. “We oughta check out the history of the building. See if any coed ganked herself there.”

Sam nodded his head as Dean headed into the bathroom. He had been about to pop the cap off his beer, but instead set down the bottle and made a grab for his laptop on the table. He opened it up, waiting for the screen to load. When it did, Sam furrowed his brow and frowned. “Dude, were you on my computer?” he called out. It took a few seconds, but Dean came out of the bathroom, looking confused. He looked at the laptop, and then Sam before giving a negative. The audacity of his lie caused Sam to stare incredulously. “Oh, really? Cuz its frozen now on-on _bustyasianbeauties.com_!”

“ _Uh_ … I’m not the only one that uses that thing,” Dean tried.

“Don’t blame your preferences on me,” Tracee called from her spot on the bed. She hadn’t looked up from the book she was reading. Already, her interest in the case had seemed to vanish. “You don’t always remember to delete your browsing history. I always delete mine.” Dean pressed his lips together, winced, and then retreated back to the backroom. Sam scoffed.

“Dean-!” He sighed in frustration. Yes, he could yell, but it wouldn’t help right now. “-Would you just… Don’t touch my stuff anymore, okay?”

“Why don’t you control your OCD?” Dean came back out, glaring.

The absolute _nerve_ -!

* * *

 

“But did you dig up anything about the building? Or the suicidal coed?” Bobby interjected before Sam could go into rant mode. For which, Dean was grateful. The ensuing argument that had happened had been drawn out and tedious. Sam retelling it would have been the same, if not worse. Not having the chance to rant, Sam gave a simple answer. The history of the building had been completely clean. “Then it’s not a haunting,” Bobby summarized.

“Maybe not,” Dean spoke up. “Tell you the truth, we’re not really sure.”

“What do you mean you’re not sure?” Bobby questioned.

“Well, it’s weird…” Sam commented.

“What’s weird?”

“This next part,” Tracee stated. “Now, we didn’t see it ourselves, but Russell told us afterwards…” As the tiny tank retold the unbelievable story of how Curtis had been beamed up by an alien spaceship, somehow all of them had begun pacing throughout the room. Bobby only watched, expression growing more and more skeptic as Tracee talked. By the time she was finished, Bobby had been slack jawed. He kept repeating the word ‘aliens’ like he could not wrap his head around the concept. Well, in their line of work, his flabbergast had been expected.

“Look, even if they are real, they’re sure as hell not coming to Earth and _swiping_ people,” Bobby insisted. He got three head nods in response. Dean, Sam, and Tracee had agreed that it had been bunch of nonsense, but hearing it straight from the guy had planted doubts. “My whole life, I’ve never found evidence of an honest-to-God abduction. It’s all just cranks and pranks.”

“Yeah, that’s what we thought, but… we figured we’d at least talk to the guy…” Sam stated. Then he went on to tell Bobby what Curtis had told them. While he was telling it, Dean couldn’t help the amusement. Even Sam couldn’t repress the grin as he got to the part about the slow dancing. Tracee hadn’t even tried. She chuckled, still entertained even now.

“You guys are exaggerating again,” Bobby assumed.

“No,” Dean and Sam answered in unison. “The bad thing was… we laughed at him,” Dean continued. “Could barely breathe, and that was all Trace’s fault.”

“I was keeping it together until he mentioned the slow dance was to _Lady in Red_ ,” Tracee mentioned. “So, _shyeah_ , I busted out laughing. Then Samuel started, and then Dean. We laughed him right out of the bar, and he refused to speak with us after that.” She chuckled again. “Afterwards, we found a perfect circle, right in front of Crawford Hall where this supposed abduction took place. We didn’t want to believe that story, but what we found matched up, so we kept investigating.”

“We talked to one of Curtis’ dorm mates and found out the guy wasn’t exactly a Good Samaritan,” Dean continued. He might have exaggerated a little in regards to Sam’s reaction to the guy, calling him a _brave little soldier_ , and whatnot—hey, got a laugh from Tracee and a chuckle from Bobby; Sam, of course, hadn’t appreciated it—but most of it had been the truth. “Guy was a dick, and so we found a connection between the victims.”

“That’s when I found my computer gone,” Sam muttered. Dean rolled his eyes as he moved away from his brother. He sat down at the table in the kitchen, picking up a beer and taking a huge gulp. Here we go… Sam rehashed the argument, glaring the whole time. Dean chose to pay only half attention.

“ _Did_ you take his computer?” Bobby asked.

“Serves him right, but no,” Dean answered.

“Well, _I_ didn’t lose it cuz I don’t lose things,” Sam retorted.

“Oh yeah…? Well, what happened to Trace’s conditioner, Mr. Perfect?”

Maybe it had been a low blow, bringing that up again. But Dean was seriously fed up with being blamed for something he didn’t do. Sam threw him a betrayed look as Tracee swelled up to begin the argument again. Dean couldn’t bring himself to care for the look. He grinned around the mouth of his beer bottle as Tracee glared at her giant boyfriend. “He’s right. My conditioner’s still missing,” she stated. Sam sighed harshly through his nose. “And _someone_ has yet to replace it!”

“For the last time, I _didn’t_ use your conditioner,” he said.

“So it just became sentient, poured itself out, and then jumped into the trash before covering itself with other trash then?!” Tracee asked sarcastically. “Funny that… because you smell an awful like like you used it!”

“No, I smell like it because we shower _together_ , Tracee!” Sam barked.

“We shower together, Sam— _not_ condition!” she yelled right back. Sam groaned dramatically covering his face with his hands. “I told you that my conditioner has been upgraded to _very_ important ever since I started wearing my hair like this!” By this, she meant her curly hair, which leaned closer to afro than kinky. Apparently, the hair product was essential in keeping the style, and she was so worried she was going to ruin her hair because she wasn’t used to it. She had freaked out when she had discovered bottles of conditioner empty at the bottom of the trashcan.

“You know what?! You wanna talk about what _you_ told me? How about when _I_ said not to wash my suit and tie with everything else—that it needed to be dry-cleaned—you went ahead and did it anyway?” Sam blurted, ripping his hands away from his face to glare at her. Tracee scoffed. Sam mock her with his own scoff. “Now there’s a big spot on it, and I can’t wear it again!”

“I _said_ I didn’t wash that!”

“Well, you’re in charge of washing our clothes, Tracee! Who _else_ could it have been?! Mr. I- like-to-throw-my-dirty-socks-in-the-sink? I don’t think so!”

“Hey…!” Dean chimed in. He only received dual glares for his troubles.

“Okay, okay, enough,” Bobby said. “Let’s get back to the matter at hand. Why don’t you tell me what happened next?”

“There was one more victim,” Dean stated.

“Right. Now, we didn’t see this one ourselves either,” Sam explained. “We kinda put it together from the evidence. But this guy, he was a—he was a research scientist. Animal testing.”

“Yeah, you know, a _dick_ , which fits the pattern,” Dean said. Bobby, patient as can be, listened to him about the alligator in the sewer bit. Some guy had gotten chewed on by Godzilla, and yet no one saw or heard anything. Honestly, all of it still seemed too weird. Thinking about it, saying it out loud—still didn’t make a lick of sense. A ghost. An alien. An alligator. Mixed together, it wasn’t a standard hunt. But it all had to be connected, right? Like Sam had said, these things were happening too close together.

“We decided to search the sewer anyway. So Dean and I split up, each taking one end of the campus,” Sam stated.

“Where were you?” Bobby asked, looking at Tracee. Dean rolled his eyes again because he just knew that another shitstorm had formed from that simple question. As if sensing his eye roll, Tracee sharply cut her eyes towards him. Bobby, too, looked over in curiosity. “What happened?”

“I was too busy yesterday night,” Tracee started. “Clawing at the bathroom floor, in utter agony, because I had been _poisoned_.”

“Oh my God,” Dean rolled his eyes again. Seriously, if he kept rolling his eyes this hard, they would be the strongest muscle in his body. “She means food poisoning. I ordered the food yesterday for lunch. Her order came wrong. She ate it anyway. Turns out the steak wasn’t cooked all the way.” Tracee huffed angrily from where she sat on the edge of his bed. “Hey, nobody told you to eat the wrong order!”

“No one told you to order the wrong thing either!”

“I didn’t order the wrong thing, Trace! It just came wrong! Besides, you were just fine by morning!” Dean had to force himself not to yell. “Considered it payback for you leaving your bottles all over the place!”

“I didn’t do that!”

“But you’re literally the only one who drinks that crap!” Dean said. He idly rubbed his nose. Honestly, he still felt a bit of ache from running into a wall because of an empty bottle of carbonated water had been left on the floor. The spectacle had happened this morning, but he still felt it. Fortunately, his nose hadn’t been broken, but it still ticked him off a little bit. Okay, a lot a bit. Seriously, Dean had thought she stopped leaving those damn bottles on the floor. “You probably did it on purpose because you think I had something to do with Sam’s stupid computer, too!”

“I don’t _care_ about his stupid computer!”

“No? Because I’m pretty sure you spent your own money—three hundred dollars’ worth—getting that stupid computer for his birthday!” Tracee opened her mouth, and then promptly shut it. “Yeah, thought so.”

“That doesn’t mean I purposely left bottles on the floor so you can trip over them, Dean!”

“Anyway…!” he continued before Tracee could defend herself with more lies. “We didn’t find anything in the sewers, but I did find Sam’s money clip right next to my Baby.” Sam smacked his lips, looking annoyed. Dean didn’t care, and woefully told Bobby how he had discovered all four tires of the Impala deflated and the engraved clip with Sam’s initials next to the scene of the crime, which had led to the undignified physical squabble between brothers.

“Okay, I’ve heard enough,” Bobby cut in before Dean could go into detail on who had won that fight. Obviously, it had been him.

“Anyway, you showed up about an hour after that,” Dean stated. “Then Tracee came back from whatever it was she was doing.”

“I was practicing with my katana so that I wouldn’t practice on you,” Tracee supplied with a sickly sweet smile. Dean let out mocking laughing as he gave her the bird. She, unaffected, returned the rude hand gestured.

“I’m surprised at you three,” Bobby said. “I really am.” Dean frowned, lowering his hand into his lap. From the corner of his eye, he saw that Sam had lowered his head. Tracee had begun scratching at her neck, turning her eyes away from the disappointed man. Apparently, all of them were ashamed. “Come over here, Tracee.” Slowly, the tiny tank rose from the bed, and then sat down in the third chair at the kitchen table. She was now in between Dean and Sam, trying hard not to look at either of them. “Sam, first off, Dean did not steal your computer.”

“But I-!”

“ _Shh_!” Bobby commanded, causing Sam to deflate considerably. Dean grinned smugly. “Tracee did not wash something that was meant to be dry-cleaned.” Sam frowned, but didn’t say anything else in protest. “Tracee, Sam did not take your conditioner. Dean didn’t order the wrong thing.” The tank only huffed. “And Dean, Sam did not touch your car. Tracee did not leave her bottle on the floor.” He was talking to them slowly, like they were kids. Dean realized that, but couldn’t really blame him for it. “And if you bothered to pull your heads outta your _asses_ , it all would have been pretty clear.”

“… What?” Dean asked.

“What you’re dealing with,” Bobby said. For several long seconds, Dean drew a blank. Neither Sam nor Tracee seemed to have an answer either. “You’ve got a _Trickster_ on your hands.”

“That’s what I thought!” Dean quickly said with a snap of his fingers.

“No you didn’t,” Sam and Tracee spoke in unison. “In my defense, Sir Robert, I haven’t encountered this… Trickster creature before,” Tracee continued. “What do they do? And how do you know?”

“Honestly, you three were my biggest clue,” Bobby told her. “These things create chaos and mischief as easy as breathing. And it’s got you so turned around and at each other’s throats, you can’t even think straight.” Suddenly, everything made sense. The computer, the tires, the hair conditioner—everything! Yeah, the three of them had their fair share of arguments, but it had never escalated to the point of this level of annoyance.

“Well, what are they? Demon? Spirit?” Dean questioned.

“More like demi-gods, really,” Bobby said. “There’s Loki in Scandinavia. There’s Anansi in West Africa. Dozens of them. They’re immortal, and they can create things out of thin air. Things as real as you and me. Make them vanish just as quick.”

“You mean like an angry spirit or an alien or an alligator,” Dean translated.

“The victims fit the MO, too. Tricksters target the high and mighty, knock them down a peg, usually with a sense of humor. Deadly pranks. Things like that,” Bobby explained.

“Poetic justice,” Tracee said.

The offhanded remark sparked something in Dean’s mind. Truthfully, he had had the same thought previously, but… “Bobby, what do these things look like?” Dean asked. Bobby shrugged, answering that they could appear like anything, but mostly, they disguised themselves as human. Right on the money. Dean turned towards the two on his right. “And what _human_ do we know who’s been at ground zero this whole time?” It took them both a few seconds, but they came to the same conclusion he had.

“That cute janitor?” Tracee muttered. “ _Huh_.”

“You couldn’t sense anything weird about him?” Sam asked. Tracee shook her head. “Guess that makes sense… What good is a trick if a Slayer can see right through it?” He let out a sigh. “So what do we do?”

 

0-0

 

Night had fallen, and Sam hadn’t returned. Tracee shivered, bracing herself against another wind shift. It had been hours since she and Dean had been tasked with keeping an eye on the janitor—i.e., walking the parameter of the building—and the man had not come out. She had gotten annoyed over two hours ago, and now she could barely feel her toes. Scowling, she made her way back to the front of Crawford Hall. This was getting absolutely ridiculous. This waiting around thing. They had their prime suspect, and yet they were still waiting around for actual hard evidence. Not that she thought they should go in guns blazing, but anything else had to be better than walking around outside, praying that the frostbite wouldn’t get her first.

Tracee met Dean at the front entrance of the building. Having come from the opposite direction, he didn’t look too keen on waiting any longer as well. They exchanged a look, his eyebrows raised with implication as he tilted his head to the front doors. It didn’t take long for Tracee to agree. Between the warmth of a building on a cold, cold night and the exasperated scolding she would probably get from her lover at a later time, she was definitely going with the warmth. Tracee nodded her head, and Dean grinned, probably all too eager to rebel against cautious just because Sam had been a _tight ass_ about assigning the task in the first place. Like they hadn’t been adults who could make their own decisions. Sam had been way too convincing of a tight ass.

Side by side, Dean and Tracee jogged up the steps to Crawford Hall. He opened the door and the heat nearly blasted her in the face. It was absolutely glorious. She released a heavy sighed as she moved further in. Dean scoffed, throwing her a knowing smirk. Tracee ignored it. Of course he wouldn’t appreciate being warm. After taking the time to actually warm up, the two of them began searching the inside of the building for the wily janitor. It was a bit of a shame they would have to kill him. He was cute, and apparently quite clever. It took true intellect to accomplish this brand of humor. But all the same, people were dying over his type of humor, so…

Tracee suddenly halted, a familiar tune grabbing her attention. She reached out to Dean, stopping him from going further up a flight of stairs. “You hear that?” she whispered. Dean turned around, eyes narrowed in concentration. He came down to her level, putting away his specially made stake. They both turned towards a set of double doors. “Is that…” Tracee furrowed her brow, trying to place the song. “… Barry White?” As Dean opened the doors to the auditorium, the words became clear. Yes, it was Barry White. It was an intro to one of his most popular songs. Tracee found herself cracking an amused smile as she followed Dean into the theater.

On stage, there was a spinning disco ball, along with a circular bed with two people on it. As they slowly moved closer, Tracee could see both were blond, but of opposite genders. The woman was clad in skimpy black lingerie. The man only wore black briefs. He was quite… well-endowed. Clearly, this had been set up. “We’ve been waiting for you,” the woman purred. Dean rapidly slapped at Tracee’s arm, breaking her rapt gaze. Clearing her throat, she turned to him, but his eyes remained focus.

“Look alive, Tracee—th-this isn’t real!” he told her.

“Trust me, sugar…” the woman said. “It’s gonna _feel_ real.”

The nervous giggle that erupted from Dean’s mouth succeeded in snapping Tracee out of her… observation. She cleared her throat again. “Really, Dean? How long has it been for you to be acting like a schoolboy?” she questioned, smoothing down her hair. In response, Dean shoved her and told her to shut it. Tracee licked her lips as the man crawled forward on top of the bed. “Now, this is nice and all, but rarely do we mix business and pleasure.” Both blonds visibly pouted, but in a seductive type way. Again, Dean giggled nervously. Hell, she might’ve, too. She had thrown a stone at him, but really… she was in a glass house, herself.

“They’re a peace offering,” a familiar voice caused both of them to whirl around. There, in one of the seats, sat a very casual Trickster. He smiled smugly at them, wagging his finger a bit. “I know what you three do. I’ve been around awhile—run into your kind before.”

“My kind…?” Tracee asked, feeling the corner of her lips twitch upward.

“Yeah, hunters,” he said.

“Oh, _sweetie_ …” she drawled, stepping towards him. “Let’s not go assuming you’ve met _anyone_ like me.” His right eyebrow lifted, quietly appraising her yet again. She sure had spoken a good game, so perhaps he was wondering where her confidence stemmed from. “Still, you have realized why we’re here, Loki.”

“Loki…?” he repeated, appearing mildly impressed.

“Well, I sure as hell not going to call you _Anansi_ , am I?” Tracee teased. He grinned widely. “The fact of the matter is… We can’t continue to let you kill people.” The Trickster rolled his dramatically and sighed.

“Come on!” he exclaimed. “Those people got what was coming to them—hoisted on their own petards.”

“For ‘tis the sport to have the engineer hoist with his own petard. And ‘t shall go hard, but I will delve one yard below their mines, and blow them at the moon. Oh, ‘tis most sweet when in one line two crafts directly meet,” Tracee quoted. The Trickster raised both eyebrows this time, looking pleasantly surprised. “Sweetie, if you keep this up, I’m going to end up _liking_ you.” The Trickster barked out a laugh, pleasing to the ears and a bit infectious. Tracee had to smother her grin only because Dean had nudged her side. She turned to him, noting his baffled expression. “What? You didn’t read Hamlet?”

“No…!” Dean seemed almost offended.

“Samuel would have caught that reference easily,” Tracee stated.

Dean rolled his eyes and turned his attention back to the chuckling Trickster. He wagged his finger again, leaning forward. “Yes, I think the feeling’s mutual,” he said. “See, I like you three. I do. So… treat yourselves. As long as you want.” He gestured to the two gorgeous model-like creatures on stage. Tracee glanced behind her. The two were curling their fingers, silently urging them to climb on stage. “Just long enough for me to move on to the next town.” She looked towards him again to see that he was unwrapping a chocolate bar. “I know you’ve both got some… pent up frustrations in this department.”

“What’s he talking about, Trace…?”

“It… It’s been awhile…” she reluctantly admitted, scratching the side of her neck. Dean turned to her, brow furrowed in puzzlement. As far as he was concerned, his brother and she had a… pretty integrated and balanced relationship. In his words, Dean thought their sexual relationship was a huge chunk of the pie chart. “Well, I was injured for a little bit, and he said he didn’t want to aggravate my stomach, so…” Dean made a face. “Anyway, afterwards, sometimes, I wouldn’t be in the mood. Or he wouldn’t. And it’s gotten to this point, I guess.”

“A-Are you guys _okay_?” he questioned. Part of his expression looked as though he couldn’t believe they were having his conversation. Really, this was not the time, especially in front of a stranger, but here they were. The other part showed real concern for the slight change in their otherwise stable relationship.

“Personally, I just think they need to bone,” the Trickster chimed in.

“Can it, Loki!” Tracee exclaimed just as Dean hissed out a ‘gross!’ “Look, we’re fine,” she assured, returning her attention back to the older Winchester. “We’ve just…” She sighed a bit. “We’ve just gotten to the point where things are simmering. It’s not a big deal.”

“It’s a pretty big deal,” the Trickster said. “I could sense the tension coming off you two in waves—so release some of that tension with my peace offering. Everybody goes home happy. What do you say?”

“… Yeah… I don’t think we can let you do that,” Dean said.

“Besides, that’s not going to work,” Tracee stated, thumbing behind her. “Blonds don’t really do it for me.”

“No…?” he leaned forward against, mouth open in a grin. “Let’s see… How about something like this?”

He snapped his fingers, and suddenly the music changed. _Can’t get enough of your love, babe_ transitioned to _Lying in my bed I hear the clock tick and think of you_. The Trickster gestured towards the stage again, prompting both Dean and Tracee to turn in unison. Her mouth dropped open at the new attraction. Cassie had replaced the blonde woman, sitting on the edge of the circular bed with a white and blue plaid shirt over a grey tank top. She was not wearing pants, but black lacy panties. She was also barefoot.

However, what had caught and kept her full attention was the man. He had been transformed into Sam, only he was wearing a short, form fitting blue dress that nicely showed his thighs. Spaghetti strapped and shimmering, the dress looked damn good on him. Just like in her wildest dreams. Then Sam smirked, opening his mouth and sliding the tip of his tongue against one of his canine teeth.

“ _Guh_ …!” Tracee couldn’t stop the strained groan in time before she clamped a hand over her mind. She was overheated, overstimulated, and overwhelmed. Admittedly, she just might start bleeding from her nose.

“You are so frickin’ weird, Trace,” Dean muttered beside. He must have noticed the copy of his brother, and yet his eyes remained on the copy of Cassie. “I swear, I’m the only one thinking with my brain here.”

“ _Shyeah_ , your downstairs brain, maybe!” Tracee retorted, shoving his arm. That seemed to snap him out of it. He sharply faced away from the stage, face flushed, yet trying to look stern. Tracee stumbled to do the same, though she had quite the hard time tearing her gaze away from the copy of Sam. “You’re being ridiculous, Loki! As if this ploy would work on me!” she exclaimed, voice unsteady.

“Oh, yeah…? Then why are you taking off your clothes?”

Tracee froze, but the large jacket still fell from her shoulders. Huh. She hadn’t even realized. A nervous laugh shot from her mouth. She tried to ignore the incredulous stare Dean gave her. “Trace…!” he admonished. She pressed her lips together and lowered her head. Because it had been a shameful action. Still, she couldn’t help but keep thinking about Sam in a dress. She imagined herself sliding a hand up his leg, fingertips teasing a toned inner thigh. She had to hold back a moan, thinking of the satisfying sound he would make. _Guh_. “Look, man, you’re awesome. We dig your style, I mean-” He risked another glance at the stage. “Y-You’re obviously a cool dude… And the, _uh_ , slow-dancing alien-”

“One of my personal favorites,” the Trickster laughed out.

“Yeah,” Dean agreed, also laughing. “But you’re still killing people, and you already know who we are, so you know that we can’t let you go. Even with this awesome peace offering, we’re gonna have to—and she’s already on stage, isn’t she?”

“Yup…!”

“Trace!” Unapologetic, Tracee had climbed on stage and approached the copy of Sam. Whilst they had been talking, she had taken to observing the double. She had been about to reach out and touch when Dean had ruined her fun. “Priorities, please! We are not here to be tempted!”

“But he’s making it so hard to resist!” Tracee whined out. Again, Dean shouted her nickname. She huffed in response, lowering her hand. “Fine. We won’t accept your peace offering,” she said like a petulant teenager being forced to apologize. The Trickster sighed, and then took a bite out of the chocolate bar.

“Too bad,” he said, after swallowing. “Like I said, I like you.” The mirth left his expression, and his hazel eyes seemed to shift to iron. “But you shouldn’t have come here by yourselves.”

“Who says we’re by ourselves?” Dean asked. As if they had been waiting for that signal, Sam and Bobby opened the doors of the auditorium and walked in. Each wielded large stakes, made specifically to kill Tricksters. The Trickster whirled around, obviously surprised to see the newcomers. “See, I’m thinking you haven’t actually run into _our_ kind before. If you had, you would have realized we’re never by ourselves.”

“… Why is there a clone of me in a dress…?” Sam asked, walking down the steps. Tracee adverted her gaze, grimace on her face. That was a question she didn’t want to answer at the moment. Maybe not ever.

“So…” the Trickster turned back in his seat. “That fight you guys had outside… That was a trick?” Dean shrugged his shoulders. Even from the back, Tracee could tell he was both smug and amused that his plan had worked. Tricking the Trickster—the older Winchester reveled in the irony. “ _Hm_ … Not bad.” Despite realizing his folly, the Trickster seemed impressed. “But you wanna see a _real_ trick?” He pointed behind him with his chocolate bar, and suddenly the sound of a chainsaw echoed in the auditorium. Cyndi Lauper abruptly shut off as Tracee looked towards where the new sound was coming from.

Panic filled her as she watched Sam narrowly dodge a swipe form the deadly weapon. A large masked man continued to try and slice through her lover. “Samuel…!” Tracee moved to intercept, but her wrist was grabbed. She turned back around to see the copy of Sam grinning at her. Her panic faltered for just a second, but it allowed the copy to yank her towards him as he stood up. Then quite unexpectedly, he grabbed a fist full of her shirt and lifted her off the floor, only to toss her over his shoulder and onto the bed.

She landed face first with her arm twisted behind her back. The weight of the clone pressed down on her caused her to gasp out. “Where you going?” he whispered in her ear, lips pressed to the crown. “Thought we were gonna have some _fun_.” Stifling an approving moan, Tracee squeezed her eyes shut. Well, this was absolute bollocks. How was she to fight this sexy beast that wore Sam’s face and had his throaty, flirty voice? _Guh_. Her body was already responding his body like a cat in heat. She might not be able to think straight soon, especially with him grinding against her. A yell broke though the dizzying want, and the bed shifted from a crash. Tracee opened her eyes to see Dean clawing at the edge of the bed, trying to stand up.

“This isn’t gonna work!” he rasped. “I’m pretty sure I’ve got an awkward boner!”

“Dork, the fuck? Me, _too_!”

“Switch?”

“Switch.”

With a grunt, Dean hefted himself from the stage floor, and then tackled the copy of his brother right off top of her. Even as she sat up, Tracee realized that Dean would probably never let her hear the end of it. For now, though, she had a copy of her best friend to worry about. ‘Cassie’ jumped on the stage and Tracee quickly moved from the bed. She dodged a straight jab by stepping to the side. Then she swung a right hook, nailing the copy’s jaw. The clone snapped back quickly, lifting her arm in an elbow strike. Gritting her teeth, Tracee bent backwards just missing the hit intended for her nose. She moved a few steps backwards, ducking to avoid another punch. It continued on like that, the copy attacking and Tracee evading the strikes. She was fast and strong, but nothing like the real thing. The real Cassie would be insulted.

Thoroughly fed up, Tracee held her ground and when the copy came close, she lashed out. Her right foot lifted, kicking at the copy’s left leg, crippling her. Her left hand already curled into a fist, Tracee struck the copy in the chest twice. Both palms caught her shoulders, pushing her away. Tracee rushed forward, twisting her body and raising her left leg in a roundhouse kick. The strike collided with the copy’s face, causing her head to spring back. She continued with a barrage of punches, which further staggered the copy. Finally, she spun around once more, smashing the back of her left fist hard. The powerful strike was enough to send the copy soaring through the air. She flew all the way towards the last row of the auditorium.

The Trickster, who had previously been cheering and jeering, had become silent, staring with a set of bemused eyes. Tracee, though, focused more on the next threat. She ran to the edge of the stage, dropping down directly in the path of the masked man, who had been targeting Bobby. The massive chainsaw came down and she smacked her hands together, catching the guide bar. She kneed the large man in the side three time with her right leg, and then lifted her leg higher, foot hitting against his masked head. In the same motion, she turned to the left, wrenching the dangerous weapon away. It clattered to the floor, still whirring.

The masked man reached out with both hands, grabbing the top of her shoulders. Tracee took a big step backward with her right foot. She wrapped all ten digits around the man’s left her and brought her knee up. She snapped bone, causing the man to unleash a deafening shout. Her left hand released his arm, fist knocking against his face. Her fingers then curled around the man’s jacket and shirt. She lifted him off the floor, swung his body around, and then threw him towards the stage. His body smacked against Sam’s copy, taking the both of them down, right before Dean could be struck by another punch.

“Tracee…!”

Turning to her right, Tracee saw the real Sam tossing his large stake towards her. She caught it with one hand, spun around while transferring it to the other, and then launched it towards the seats. The projectile shot through the air, impaling deep within the Trickster’s chest. Wide-eyed, he stared at the large stake, and then he looked up at her, brow furrowed. Blood spilled from his mouth, sliding down his chin. For just a few seconds, tendrils of remorse coursed through her at the sight. Then, just as quickly, they vanished. The Tricksters slumped back in his seat, dead.

Sam and Bobby approached on either side of her, staring at the body. Panting, Dean also came towards them. He hopped off of the stage, tapping Tracee’s shoulder twice. She turned to him, seeing that the corner of his lip had been split and bleeding. “You guys okay?” he asked, even though he had suffered the most damage. A chorus of affirmations was the response, so he nodded his head. “Well… I gotta say, he had style.”

“He put me in a dress,” Sam replied flatly.

“Yeah, _he_ put you in the dress,” Dean said, amusement slipping into his tone. His focus was on Tracee, who avoided his gaze like the plague. She bloody well knew that he would lord it over her head. He grunted in pain as he turned. “Somebody grabbed that stake,” he said as he began making his way towards the exit. Tracee sighed heavily as Sam silently volunteered. She watched as her lover yanked the stake from the Trickster’s chest, and flinched. Frowning, she wondered why. Sam slowly reached for his face, fingertips closing his eyelids. Tracee found herself nodding in agreement. Despite the trouble and the vicious pranks he pulled, he had been likeable. Refreshingly different from the other supernatural creatures they normally encountered. She sighed again, turning away from the sight.

“Balls…” Bobby murmured, following her. Tracee scooped up her large jacket as she moved. Hm. It had been the first time Bobby had seen her in action. She wondered if that remark had been awe, horror, or a blend of the two. Or maybe something else entirely. She hoped he wouldn’t distance himself from her now that he knew what she was capable of. Hearing about it was one thing, but actually seeing it for himself… “Come on, cupcake,” Bobby said, urging her towards the exit with a gentle brush to her shoulder. Oh. Okay. Holding back a smile, Tracee increased her pace.

The four of them hurried to the entrance of Crawford Hall, barely pausing their strides as Dean and Sam opened the doors.

“Bobby, thanks a lot!” Sam said. “We really could’ve-”

“Hey, save it…!” Bobby interrupted. “Let’s just get the hell outta dodge before somebody finds that body!”

The four made it to the Impala, Bobby moving around the car to the driver’s side. He opened the door and climbed in. Good thing it had been parked right out front. Sam opened the passenger side door in the back for her, but halted. “Look, _um_ … Tracee, Dean…” Both halted, turning to look his way. “I just wanna say that I’m, _uh_ … I’m sorry. I was being a tight ass, so I’m sorry—both of you.”

“Hey, me, too,” Dean said. “Maybe I’m not a _complete_ joy to be around.”

“I have been behaving ridiculously as well,” Tracee stated. “I’m sorry for my frustrations.” Sam turned, looking at her through narrowed eyes. She reached up and scratched at her neck and dipped her chin. “But water under the bridge, and all that.”

“Hey,” Sam’s voice made her look up. “I’ll make it up to you. I promise.” Both eyebrows jerked with implication. Tracee smiled up at him. Dean, too, must have realized the implication because he groaned dramatically from his side of the Impala.

“You guys are breaking my heart,” Bobby said popping back up. “Could we please just leave?” He pointedly looked at all three of them before getting back in the car. They chuckled in response, before they, too, climbed into the Impala. Dean started up the car, not bothering to wait for her to strap into her seatbelt.

They took off into the night, another case finished.

 

0-0

 

The Trickster watched the body of his doppelganger disperse before taking a huge chuck out of his chocolate bar. Huh. So that was a Slayer? Admittedly, he hadn’t run into one before. Had simply heard of the legend in all of his time on this plane. Slayers tended to stay in one place until the next one was called, and generally, he hadn’t stayed in the same place for too long. However, he knew that something drastic had changed a few years ago. The activation of all Slayers. He had known, sooner or later, that he would run into one. Apparently, they were as deadly and brutal as the stories said. And this one was accompanied by hunters. The Winchester brothers, at that. Interesting. Not at all what he had expected.

“Gabriel.” Flinching, he turned towards the stage. Gabriel. A name he hadn’t been called in centuries had been so casually mentioned. There, sitting at the edge of the stage, was a man he hadn’t seen before. He had a lean build with tanned skin and bright grey eyes. His hair, light brown and dreadlocked, was pulled into a half ponytail. He wore black cargo pants, a light green sweater, a jean jacket, and sandals. A vessel, maybe…? With a bizarre fashion sense. Perhaps, a single-minded angel had finally managed to track him? Unlikely, though, because he couldn’t sense anything. For all intents and purposes, this was just a man. And yet, this just a man, had appeared without warning.

“Sorry, buddy, the name’s _Loki_ ,” the Trickster corrected, casually. He tilted his head to the side, making a show of studying the man in front of him. “You’ve got the wrong guy.”

“There’s no mistake,” the man stated. “You may be borrowing another’s face, but I know who you are… brother.” At the mention of their relation, he couldn’t stop his eyes from widening. Shocked, and a bit fearful, he stared at the stranger’s face, contemplating if he should demand answers or just run. Run far away, maybe lay low for half a century. Fake his death, maybe? Well, depending on which brother this was, he just might have to. How had he been found? He had been extra careful, completely immersing himself in the Trickster persona. No one had realized, so _how_? “There is nothing in this world that can be completely concealed from me. Unfortunately.”

“What do you want?” he asked through clenched teeth.

“What I want is simple,” the man said. “Whether or not you listen is entirely up to you. So… Shall we begin from the top?”

 

0-0


	38. Instinct & Half-Truths

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I went forwards and backwards with the episode called Roadkill, and I could not find anything that I wanted to use for this story, so I skipped that episode. It might have happened, but honestly, it'll never be brought up in this story, so... Here's my take on Heart.

"I don't understand. I already gave my statement."

Tracee wasn't as thrilled as she thought she would be in San Francisco, California. She had kept her sighs mostly to herself, but she was quite disappointed. Finally, they had managed to find a case in one of the places she had wanted to visit the most, but of course, they get here, and it's the coldest time of year for the sunniest place in the United States. She could not believe her luck. So much for sandy beaches and bikinis. More than likely, Dean would decide to move on to the next state as soon as this case was finished. So her mood this time around had been ruined, and the girl's baffled reaction to their presence wasn't helping much.

Frowning, Tracee followed Madison, the eye-witness of their case, further into her apartment. Sam was the one to explain that they were following up on the incident, wanting to verify a few things. They had come to California because they had caught wind of several cases where women were found without hearts. Over the past year, there had been many of them. The outlier, of course, had come when a man had turned up without a heart. The women that had been found had washed up on shore, too decomposed to determine anything. Wouldn't have peaked a hunter's interest too much. However, this guy had seemingly been attacked by a vicious beast, his corpse left behind with claw marks and no heart. In an office setting. Of course, Dean had been all over it. Apparently,  _werewolves_  were a supernatural goal for him.

"This is my neighbor, Glen," Madison introduced them to a lean man with a dark beard and short curly hair. The man rose from the couch. "Glen, this is Detective…" She trailed off, obviously having already forgotten their fake names.

"Landis," Dean answered. "Detective Dante," he pointed at Sam. "And this is our assistant, Dr. Wadleigh."

The man, Glen, nodded politely in greeting, and then excused himself. He appeared quite timid as he walked pass them all. He haven't even directly responded to Dean's comment about him being thoughtful for bringing casserole over. Madison said that Glen had come over to check on her—that he was sweet. Sweet on her, perhaps. Tracee saw the appeal, of course. Madison was a tall, slender woman with long dark hair. She also had a doe-eye thing going on. Many, if not all, would find her attractive. It wasn't too surprising to find adoring eyes on her. Plus, her voice was a bit alluring as well. As Madison directed them all to sit at her table, Tracee noticed the lingering gaze Dean kept on her. Typical. She sat down across from Dean while Sam sat down across from Madison.

"You must be pretty shaken up," Sam assumed. "You were Nate Mulligan's assistant, right?"

"For two years, yeah," Madison confirmed, clasping her fingers together on the table.

"So you knew all about him," Dean said.

"Probably knew more about him than  _he_  did," Madison replied. "Nate was…" She trailed off, thoughts shifting elsewhere. She gave a smile, but it didn't quite reach her eyes. Subtle though it may have been, Tracee noticed a slight twitch about her expression. It caused her to narrow her eyes.

"But…?" Sam urged, maybe noticing the same thing.

"Nothing, really," Madison quickly assured. Then she sighed tightly. "You get a few scotches in him and he started hitting on anyone in a five-mile radius—you know the type."

"Yeah. We do, actually," Sam remarked, eyeing his brother.

Sensing his gaze, Dean had the nerve to look offended. Tracee pressed her lips together to keep the chuckle in. Dean cleared his throat, switching his focus back on Madison. He asked if the victim had any enemies she could be aware of. She, again, appeared baffled by the line of questioning, but Dean told her that they were merely covering all bases. Madison pressed her lips together, and then sighed. "This is embarrassing," she began. "But… my ex-boyfriend, Kurt… Mueller. After we broke up, he kinda went nuts. He's… Well, he's kinda been stalking me."

"Sorry, what?" Tracee spoke up for the first time since arriving. All three looked in her direction. "Did you just say that an ex is  _stalking_  you? Have you reported this to the police?"

"Well… no. Kurt's-"

"Ms. Edna-"

"Madison," Sam corrected.

"-Are you aware that stalking is a mental assault? That means, it's a crime," Tracee continued, unperturbed. "Any unwanted, repeated advances towards you may result in a  _major_  crime. As in a physical—one where someone doesn't get to walk away." Madison visibly swallowed. Well, at least now she appeared the part of shaken. "How long ago did you break up with this person? When was the last time you saw him? Has he been calling? Do you feel threatened in any way? What can you tell us about your ex, regarding this circumstance specifically? How far has this stalking escalated?"

"Tracee…!" Sam interrupted before she could finish the series of questions. She turned to her lover, and he gave her a look. Apparently, she was digressing. They were here to find out about the possibility of a werewolf. They were not here to investigate this guy for stalking. Keeping the huff to herself, Tracee crossed her arms, leaning back in her chair. "My partner—assistant—brings up a good point, though," Sam continued, turning back towards Madison. "Could Kurt and Nate have a… history of some sort?"

"I… He-He got it into his head that Nate and I were involved," Madison said, awkwardly diverting her gaze away from Tracee. "He showed up at my job, and accused me of having an affair. Nate tried to defend me, and a punch was thrown before security could interfere. I was lucky to have kept my job."

"When did this happen?" Tracee asked. "And when was the last time you saw him?"

"Right after I broke up with him," Madison told them. "The last time I saw Kurt… was a few nights ago. Actually, it was the night Nate died. We were all grabbing drinks at this bar, and Kurt showed up. Nothing happened, but… for a few seconds, I saw him. He was watching me. Then he was gone. To tell you the truth… He scares me."

Huh. Does he now? Tracee kept quiet as Dean and Sam exchanged a silent conversation. Then, they collectively decided it was time to go. They thanked Madison for answering their questions, and then quickly made their leave. Once they were outside the apartment house, Dean immediately asked what they thought about the situation. Sam leaned towards the ex-boyfriend being their target. When Tracee said nothing, both brothers halted their steps and turned to face her, prompting her to stop as well. They were only a few feet from the Impala. "Trace…? Something on your mind?" Dean asked.

"I don't know," Tracee replied, looking back towards the apartment.

"And what was up with those questions?" Sam slid an arm around her shoulders.  _Hm_. They were tense for some reason. "What are you thinking?"

"I think… my opinions on this matter are biased," she said. "A few weeks ago, Cassie told me about this story she did on victims of stalkers."

"Hey, yeah, she told me about that, too," Dean said. He grinned then, showing his teeth. "She made the front page."

" _Shyeah_ , right, so I think I got triggered from that," Tracee admitted. "Anyway, I should research werewolves more. In the meantime, let's look into this crazy ex-boyfriend as the possible lupine, shall we? Like you said, it's a theory, so let's prove it."

"Alright, we'll pay Kurt a visit tonight," Dean stated.

 

0-0

 

Inside the apartment, Madison stared at the empty seats that had been previously occupied only moments ago. She took a strand of her hair and began chewing on it. She hadn't done this since she had been a child, and yet, here she was, gnawing. She shut her eyes for a moment, taking in several deep breaths. This wasn't the first time she had felt like that. She had felt it a month ago… with Kurt. But that experience had been agitating. So much so that she had nearly vomited when he had tried to kiss her. Her entire body had reeled in protest at his proximity. She had known then that something had been wrong, and had immediately ended things. It had been a surprise for both of them, really. However, the feeling in her gut, now, wasn't twisting. Totally opposite, actually.

It had been like a twitch in her mouth that had spread all the way through her. She had felt so relaxed in their presence. She had to stop herself several times from telling them—Detective Landis and Dante—about  _everything_. God, what good would that have done? They would have thought she was crazy. That Dr. Wadleigh they had with them had certainly been suspicious of her already. All those questions… Madison spit out her hair and wiped at her mouth. There was something about those two that made her want to… lean towards them. There was also about that Doctor that made her guarded. It had been a conflicting reaction, canceling out both. She wasn't sure why, though. The doctor looked about as intimidating as a kitten. Even if her eyes were like a panther. Madison rubbed at her nose, feeling the twitching again.

The three had smelled really nice, though.

 

0-0

 

In the dead of night, the three entered the apartment belonging to one Kurt Mueller. Entered being a part of breaking. Dean had skillfully disengaged the lock, allowing them access. Tracee fleetingly wondered if she should try her hand at lock picking. Then thought better of it. After all, she couldn't imagine herself being in a situation where she would need to. Either Dean or Sam would be nearby, and if not, a locked door wouldn't stop her. Quietly, the door was shut behind them. Kurt wasn't anywhere around, so they could search his apartment in peace. They were looking for anything that pointed to him being their werewolf. Five minutes in, they hadn't discovered a thing worth mentioning.

"Anything…?" Sam asked, distractedly looking through pages of some book.

"Nothing," Tracee sighed, uncaringly nudging at one of the many seemingly collectible miniature classic vehicles scattered throughout the apartment. This was dull. Looking through his department, she deduced that their suspect was an average single male. She had been expecting blood, claw marks, and fur. Well, maybe not fur. Dean and Sam told her that real werewolves didn't actually transform into furry creatures. Another disappointing thing she had experienced since coming to California. She had seen way too many werewolf films with furry creatures of the night, so to find out that the species as a whole only grew loner canines and claws had been majorly scowl worthy.

"I've got nothing but leftovers and a six-pack," Dean commented, closing the refrigerator.

"And looking through this guy's fridge is important because…?" Tracee asked.

"I'm hungry," Dean retorted with a shrug of his shoulders. Tracee snorted, mildly amused by his response.

"Who knows, Tracee? Maybe there's some human hearts behind the  _Häagen-Dazs_ ," Sam teased.

" _Ooh_ , ice cream?" Completely enthused, Tracee practically shoved Dean aside to get a peek at the inside of the freezer. Again, she was met by disappointment. "What?  _Blue Bell_? Now we know this guy's shady!"

"Because of his taste in  _ice cream_?" Dean asked incredulous as he moved towards the glass door leading to the balcony. Tracee merely huffed as she shut the freezer door. She wasn't even going to dignify that with a response. Dean had already proved his lack of understanding when he had argued that all bottled water tasted the same when he had made the mistake of bring home the wrong brand. She shook off memories of  _Aquafina_  versus  _Ice Mountain_ , and continued to lazily search the apartment. "Sam, Trace, come here…!" Dean called. Dropping the useless search, she and her lover headed out on to the balcony, where Dean leaned a bit over the railing. "Check it out," he said, gesturing over the ledge.

"Finally, some claw marks," Tracee muttered. She narrowed her eyes, examining closer. She wondered when they had been left behind. Fairly recently, it would seem because it appeared as though werewolf had used the wall, bracing his fall. That was strange, though. These murders had been happening for over a year now. Wouldn't there be more marks if this was how he had left his apartment every time? Tracee hummed lightly, provoking a nudge from Sam. "I just find it strange that there's only one set of markings there, and no other sign anywhere on this balcony, or inside the apartment for that matter."

"Maybe it was his first time leaving this way afterwards," Dean suggested. Tracee hummed again. "Besides, we don't actually know if he was coming or going."

"Going," Tracee replied. "The marks are smooth as if-" She mimed clawing at the air in a downward angle. "If he was going up, there would be more marks—one right after the other—choppy and uneven."

"How do you know that?" Dean questioned.

"Because I make similar marks on your brother's back," Tracee said, proudly. Of course, the older brother groaned dramatically and rolled his eyes. He went back inside the apartment, leaving Tracee to snicker in glee. Then she noticed Sam was giving her a look and she abruptly stopped giggling. "What? He makes it too easy." He cocked an eyebrow. "It doesn't change that I'm right, darling. There would be more scratch marks, considering how many bodies have shown up without hearts in this area. And Sebastian's the only one that lives here."

"Yeah, that is weird," Sam agreed. "But to cover all bases, let's keep looking."

"Okay," she said. Then she smiled. "Shall I put more ointment on your back tonight?"

" _Nah_ ," he grinned back at her, leaning down. "I like the marks you leave on me." Then he gave her a quick peck to her lips before turning and heading back into the apartment. Tracee pressed her lips together, forcing the pleased giggles inside. Coughing lightly, she followed after her lover, trying hard to stay focus on the task at hand.

They searched for a few minutes more before hearing a single gunshot. The brother immediately dropped what they were doing and ran out of the apartment, leaving Tracee staring incredulously. Had they forgotten what state they had come to? Gunshots weren't uncommon. Sighing, she went about the apartment, straightening things that had been disturbed. Once she was finished, she went to the front door, locked it, and then turned on her heel to exit through the balcony. After shutting the balcony door, she leapt over the side. After a few more jumps, she landed in the alleyway. Soon enough, she managed to find Dean and Sam. They booth stood near a dumpster. Coming closer, she realized they were hovering over a body—the body of a policeman with a massive hole in his chest. Guess she had been wrong about the gang shooting.

"I'd say Kurt's looking more and more like our  _Cujo_ ," Dean remarked, grimacing.

"Dean, if he's out here, we'd better check on Madison," Sam replied.

All in agreement, the three hurried back to the Impala. Since Kurt's place was clear on the other side of town, not to mention the traffic, by the time they had reached Madison's apartment, the Sun was nearly up. Sam knocked on the door, apartment 3, and waited for an answer. The noise, so early in the morning, caused the opposite door to open first. Glen stared curiously at the three, wanting to know what was happening. "Police business, Glen," Dean told him flippantly. Then, finally, Madison opened her door. She narrowed her eyes in confusion, asking the reason for their untimely visit.

"That's something we'd rather speak about in private," Tracee stated. Her head subtly indicated towards her nosy neighbor. Madison understood and nodded her head. She opened the door further, gesturing for the three to enter. Once they were inside, she shut the door and smiled pleasantly even if it appeared as though she had only recently woken up. She offered coffee, and Dean accepted for all of them. Madison gave them white mugs, and then took the pot of coffee off the burner. "Have you seen your ex since we've last spoken?" Tracee questioned as she poured the dark liquid into Sam's mug. The woman hesitated, pursing her lips. After pouring for Dean, she shifted to do the same for Tracee. " _Oh_ , none for me. Do you have juice?"

"I-I have  _Sunny D_ ," Madison replied. She turned, setting the coffee pot back on the counter. "Help yourself." She gestured towards her refrigerator. Tracee nodded and almost merrily walked over to the large appliance. "To answer your question," she continued as Tracee opened the door. Immediately, she found the large jug of orange juice, but she also noticed how stocked the refrigerator was. She distractedly wondered if Madison knew how to cook, and gained a new respect for the slightly taller woman. "I… I did see him—last night. He was outside my window… just looking."

"That's all he did?" Tracee asked, pouring the juice into her mug. "He didn't try to get in or try to talk to you?"

"No, he just looked," Madison stated. Tracee hummed. Then she placed the jug of juice back in the refrigerator. "Has he done something?"

"We're not really sure," Sam replied.

"It's probably nothing," Dean mentioned. "But… we just don't want to take any chances. Like Trace said, his behavior might lead to a major crime. In fact, one of us should probably stay here with you, just in case he stops by. Where does he work?"

"He owns a body shop," Madison said.

"You mind grabbing that address for us?" Dean asked. Madison nodded her head, and then went off to get it. After she disappeared around the corner, Dean turned towards them. "Alright, you two follow after the creepy ex. I'm gonna hang here with the hot chick." Rolling her eyes, Tracee took a gulp from her mug. Typical Dean.

"Dude, why do you always get to hang out with the girls?" Sam questioned.

"Cuz I'm older," Dean said as though it were obvious.

"No. No way," Sam retorted. "We settle this the old-fashioned way." He took Dean's mug away and placed his and his brother's on the counter. Tracee leaned against the counter, pressing her lips into a thin line. Sam held up his hands, one curled into a fist while the other was flat and palm up. After a few seconds, Dean copied his posture. They then had a round of Rock-Paper-Scissors. Dean, of course, lost. "Dean,  _always_  with the scissors," Sam gloated. Before he could continue bragging, Dean protested and insisted on having another round.

"As amusing as this is, dorks," Tracee spoke up, prompting the two dorks in question to turn her way. "It is ultimately irrelevant." She pushed herself from the counter and moved closer to them. "I'll be staying here with Edna, and you two can go after Sebastian." Both of them had the nerve to give her the same look of disbelief as though she had said something outlandish. She calmly sipped her orange juice, waiting for their verbal rebuttal.

"Tracee," Sam began. She nearly rolled her eyes because she recognized that placating tone of voice. He used that tone whenever he thought what he said next would leave him having to sleep in bed with his brother instead of her. "Out of the three of us, me and Dean are the better shots," Sam explained. "It's gonna take a silver bullet to bring this guy down. I mean, I'm just saying it might be better for one of us to stay behind instead. And since Dean's gonna get distracted, I'm the only option."

"Valid points, darling," Tracee commended. "There's nothing worse than having to fight off a supernatural creature with your pants down." She gave Dean a pointed look. The older Winchester merely grinned.

"If  _that's_  how I go…" he trailed off, raising his eyebrows.

Shaking her head, she returned her focus back on her lover. "Still, it doesn't change the fact that I  _am_  staying," she insisted. Sam opened his mouth again. "If Sebastian turns out to be our lupine, you will be following him anyway, directly back here. Besides, I don't need weapons to kill something. They're accessories. They just make me feel all  _girly_." Sam frowned and pinched his eyebrows together. "And actually, I believe that Edna is not being as forthcoming as she could."

"You think she's lying about something?" Sam questioned.

"Not  _lying_  per se," Tracee shrugged. "Just… withholding. There might be some things she's not willing to say to men. I intend to get to the bottom of it. Perhaps I'll find something that could help. If not, at least my curiosity will be sated." Smiling, she stepped forward again, body nearly touching Sam's. She sat her mug on the counter next to theirs. She tilted her head to the side, reaching up to run her fingers up and down her lover's sides. Unable to help himself, Sam nearly melted because of her soothing ministrations. "So… be careful when you follow him,  _hm_?" Her lover sighed, but nodded his head in agreement. "Thank you," she said gently as she tilted her head up and stretched her neck. Sam responded by dipping his chin and lifting his hands to grab her hips. His kiss was soft and sweet, and she melted in return. To their right, Dean groaned.

"You are  _so_  whipped, dude," he remarked.

"There's a reason for that," Sam retorted, barely breaking their lip lock. Tracee hummed in agreement, causing Sam to smirk against her lips. She grinned in response.

"You guys are gross."

 

0-0

 

Some hours later, Tracee was sitting at Madison's table. In her hands was a book she had found she had wandered through the apartment. Safety checks, or some such thing she had told her host. Actually, she had found quite a few remarkable books in the woman's collection. The story she had settled on involved a time-traveling woman who had decided to marry her sworn enemy in order to save the world. Maybe. Intriguing read so far, and she wasn't half way through yet. Admittedly, she had lost focus on the reality for quite some time. She might get reprimanded for that later, so better start paying attention sooner or later… after she finished this chapter.

However, fate had other plans because when she flipped to the next page, a slight nudge at the table caught her attention. Tracee blinked once, and then shifted her line of sight away from the words of the page to the woman who had stood on her left. Madison stared back at her, arms crossed over her chest and slight frown on her face. Tracee set the book down, turning her head. She wondered how long exactly Madison might have been wanting her attention. Honestly, she had a habit of ignoring those who wanted her attention when she was in the midst of reading. Dean had learned to just start throwing things. Sam had learned a more… physical approach to gain her attention. Such a smart man. Clearing her throat, Tracee gave her host her undivided attention.

Madison must have showered in the time Dean and Sam had left the apartment to go searching for Kurt Mueller and now. She had lost her giant fluffy robe and had exchanged it with jeans and a thin white sweater. It made her realize that she hadn't showered since yesterday. Her stare became just a bit envious. She had been supposed to condition her hair today. However, it seemed this certain case would span the rest of the day, if not more. Keeping the huff to herself, Tracee opened her mouth. "Yes…? What can I do for you?"

"Doctor…" Madison began. "Your phone has been ringing."

"Really?" Tracee reached into the left pocket of her jacket. As though on cue, the device began vibrating. Damn. She knew she had forgotten to do something before she had grabbed this book. She flipped open her phone, praying that the caller was not Sam. She took a deep breath, and then held the phone up to her ear. "Hello…?"

" _Tracee, I've been calling you for five minutes now_!" Of course, it was Sam. " _I thought something had happened_."

"I'm sorry, dar-" She stopped and faked a cough, suddenly remembering that Madison was still standing there. "Detective Dante," she amended. "My phone was on vibrate. I didn't hear it. Has something happened?"

" _No, no, I was just checking in_ ," Sam stated. " _We haven't exactly found Kurt yet. The guy hasn't been to work for a week, but we do have a lead. Me and Dean are heading over now_."

"Where?"

"Uh…  _Just-Just a place he goes frequently_ ," Sam said. " _If we can't find him there, we'll head back to his apartment and wait for him_."

"Alright, keep me posted," Tracee said. "I'll switch the ringer on now. Talk to you in a bit?" She couldn't help the smile that crossed her face as she heard her lover mirror her words in confirmation. Then she heard Dean in the background, telling his brother to  _just hang up already_ , which, of course, caused a chuckle. "Don't get into too much trouble without me."

" _We'll try not to_ ," Sam agreed, also snickering. " _Bye_."

"Bye," she replied. She pulled her phone away from her ear. She idly thought she might have to purchase a new cell phone. The cracked screen was becoming a bother. She had been carrying this pink one around for so long, though, even after the crash. But they didn't make pink ones anymore. The sound of Madison clearing her throat snapped Tracee out of her idle thoughts.

"Are you and… Detective Dante involved?" she questioned.

"What makes you say that?"

"It's the first time I've seen you smile since I've met you," Madison stated. "It's nice… Your smile." Tracee hummed lightly as she pressed the button to increase volume on her phone. Madison cleared her throat again, this time awkwardly. "Well, anyway, I'm about to watch some T.V…. I just wanted to let you know that you can sit at the couch. It's more comfortable than being hunched over. That is, if you don't mind some soap operas."

"Thank you. I appreciate your hospitality," Tracee said as she stood up from the chair. She slipped her cell phone back into her pocket. Then she followed Madison to the living room area, but not before grabbing the riveting tale she had been reading. She didn't mind the soap operas, but she didn't actually want to watch. It was the type of television programming that Sam might get hooked on, but not her. She had suffered through soap operas during her childhood. Her father had loved daytime television. Probably still did.

Madison sat on the right side of the couch, leaving Tracee to plop down at the opposite end. Her host reached for the remote on the coffee table and immediately powered on the television. She flipped through channels until coming across a show already in progress. Tracee opened the book, crossing one leg over the other. This time, though, she merely pretended to read. No point in getting lost in the words again. She had told the brothers that she had intended on finding out more information from Madison, and she had meant it. She purposely waited until the third commercial break to lean to the side, feigning a move to get more comfortable. Madison thought she was being subtle, but Tracee recognized the way she had tilted her body away.

"Tell me something, Ms. Edna-"

"It's Madison," came the correction, eyes never straying from the television.

"-Do I make you uncomfortable somehow?" Tracee continued. Her host stiffened slightly. "Because I wouldn't want that." That was far from what she wanted. If Madison was uncomfortable, she wouldn't admit anything. "I'm here to keep you safe, after all," Tracee said in a reassuring manner. "I realize that I'm not the most likeable person in the world, but I wouldn't go out of my way to make a person feel uncomfortable."

"Is that why you call me by a different name?" Madison, surprisingly, sassed. Tracee swiveled her head, focusing completely on the brunette. She hadn't looked away from the television, but there was something like cooled boldness in her expression. Huh. Unexpected, given her earlier behavior. Tracee supposed Madison wasn't as uncomfortable as she had believed.

"My apologies… Madison," she replied. "I'm not good with names. It's one of the reasons I've failed history repeatedly. My teachers didn't take too kindly to calling Abraham Lincoln… Jesus." An amused snort came from Madison followed by clearing her throat to hide her amusement. " _Shyeah_ , got marked off a lot in school."

"Well, you made it to doctor status, so it couldn't have been that bad," Madison said. She hummed again. Madison turned her head, doe-eyes shifting to focus on Tracee. "What kinda doctor are you, by the way?"

"I have PhDs in Psychology and Sociology," Tracee said. Well, technically, she would have, maybe, if she had finished college. Those were her best subjects, after all. "So not exactly a medical doctor."

"So you help out the police often? Sounds like an interesting life," Madison remarked. She sighed lightly. "It's kinda amazing."

"You know something…? It is. Sure, it has ups and downs, and I look at gruesome stuff way more than I used to, but…  _shyeah_ , it is amazing. Probably because of the people I work with," Tracee said. She stretched towards the coffee table, setting the book down. Then she returned her attention back to Madison. "Not everyone is lucky enough in that regard. It's a little strange that…  _you're_  not that lucky. It's actually a bit mind-boggling."

"Why would you say that?"

"For one, there have been no calls or visits from anyone since I've been here… except for your neighbor, but I doubt he thinks of you as a friend," Tracee mentioned. Madison ducked her head, staring down at her lap. "You're attractive, hella smart, judging by your book collection, and you are kind. It doesn't make sense that no one else is checking up on you after you discovered your boss's mangled body." Madison squeezed her eyes shut and bit down on her lower lip. "Can I ask you something personal…? Would that be alright?"

"It sounds like you already figured it out," Madison muttered.

"Maybe so… but it still doesn't make sense to me. A woman like you shouldn't be in that type of situation," Tracee said. "So… can you fill in the blanks for me?"

After a long moment of quiet, besides the television playing in the background, Madison sighed slowly. Then, she returned her gaze back to Tracee. "It was Kurt," she said. "We dated for a year and a half. Gradually, during that time, the relationship with him became more important than others. Because that's what he wanted." As she thought… Madison had been isolated—the first sign of an unhealthy relationship. Tracee wondered if Madison had recognized the sign, which prompted her to leave. "By the time I broke up with him, I didn't have any friends. I moved away from my family to this state for him. We don't talk as much anymore… even now."

"Did he ever…?"

"No," Madison said. "I like to think I wouldn't let it get that far." She lifted her hands, fingers sliding down strains of hair. A wry chuckle escaped her lips. "A woman like me, you said, but… it's not like he introduced himself like 'Hi! I'm possessive and controlling, and I like to punch people. Wanna be my girlfriend?' He seemed normal when we first met. I fell for him because he was nice and caring and… Looking back, though, maybe it should have been obvious."

"No, you're right," Tracee agreed. "My first boyfriend started out normal, too. I fell for his charm, believed every word he said, and trusted him completely. And I didn't exactly notice the signs… until his girlfriend showed up pregnant, threatening to beat my ass if I didn't stay away from her man." Madison winced. " _Shyeah_ , fun times…" Tracee cleared her throat and blinked several times. " _Um_ … But speaking of  _I like to punch people_ … Why did your ex go for your boss? I mean, you work with other men, right?"

"… That might have been my fault," Madison admitted. "Once or twice, I told Kurt how… bold Nate was with his hands. He kinda crossed the line between professional and too friendly." Tracee snorted, knowing what harassment in the workplace had been like. It had been one of the reasons she had preferred to work alone. "I guess Kurt remembered after I broke up with him."

"If you don't mind me asking, why  _did_  you stay with him for so long?" Tracee questioned. "What was that moment you decided to end things with him?"

"Well… Honestly, I was too insecure to leave even when I realized how unhappy I was," Madison said. "I didn't always used to be a… woman like me. Some stuff happened… and it changed everything. For the better, I think, but I embraced it after a while."

"What happened?"

"… I… I got mugged," Madison replied, hesitantly. Tracee's eyebrow cocked up in surprise. "I know it's strange, but don't get me wrong—the whole thing rattled me quite a bit. Still, it changed my priorities around. I felt—actually felt—a change in me after that. I decided then that I would take control of my life. There was no use in feeling sorry for myself. There's no use in being with someone like Kurt, so once I… recovered, I told him to leave."

"I'm guessing he didn't take too kindly to that?"

"No, he didn't," she stated. "We had a huge argument, but in the end, I made him go."

"Good on you, Madison," Tracee praised. "Sometimes, the greatest change stems from a horrible situation. I think you proved that." The dark-haired woman smiled, taking her hands from her hair. "You know, you are different than what I expected. You have a likeable type of mindset."

"I think I was wrong about you, too. You're a lot easier to talk to than I thought," Madison said, smile growing just a bit.

Tracee furrowed her brow, curious about the first impression she had made, but before she could voice a question, her cell phone began ringing. The ringtone indicated that it was Dean calling. The older Winchester absolutely despised what she had chosen for him, but she believed that  _Move, bitch, get out the way_  was quite appropriate. Madison snorted lightly, and then quietly excused herself by getting up from the couch. Tracee waited a few seconds before answering. "Yes, Dean?" she greeted.

" _We found him_ ," came the reply, but he sounded preoccupied.

" _Shyeah_ … That's good," Tracee said.

" _What's it like on your end_?" Dean asked.

"I have a little more insight, that's for sure," she stated. "If Sebastian's our guy, he definitely had motive to go after this latest victim." Dean hummed, choosing not to comment. Tracee frowned, and then strained her ears, listening to background noise. There was music playing. "Where are you?" Before she could answer, she came to the conclusion all by herself. This early in the day. Guy had skipped out on work. Sam's earlier reluctance. Dean's distracted tone of voice. "You followed him into a strip club."

" _Damn it! I told Sammy you wouldn't find out_ ," Dean huffed. " _God—why do you have to be so smart_?" Tracee rolled her eyes. " _But listen, he's keeping his eyes glued to the ground_."

"What? Tell him not to do that," Tracee said, seriously.

"….  _What did you just say_?"

"Tell him to focus on the dancers."

" _You…You_ want _your boyfriend to ogle other chicks_?"

"For research purposes," Tracee explained. "That way, the next time his birthday comes around, I can give him a treat." Dean sucked in a breath, gearing up to retort in the same way he always had. She didn't give him a chance this time. "Or when my birthday comes,  _he_  can give me the treat. Do you think we can find a pole strong enough to sustain his weight?" Instead of belting out the standard 'Gross,' Dean shouted and groaned unintelligibly before disconnecting the call. Tracee laughed, absolutely tickled by the reaction. "Oh, Dean, you make it too easy."

"Hey, Tracee! I'm gonna make lunch. You don't mind steak, right?" Madison's voice came from the other side of the apartment, in the kitchen area. "I'm actually really good at it!"

"Steak…? Girl, if it was legal, I'd marry you right now!" Tracee called back, jokingly.

"I don't think Detective Dante would appreciate that!"

"He'll deal with it! Steak's on the line here!"

Shared laughter erupted, echoing through the apartment.

 

0-0

 

Tracee stretched her arms up high, and then down towards the floor. Groaning, she straightened her body. The morning sun peaked through the curtains of the living room window. It had been a very late night. She and Madison had spoken for hours, watched television, and had eaten. They had even painted each other's fingernails. Tracee had chosen an electrifying blue while Madison had gone with an emerald green. They had basically had fun. Many times, Tracee had forgotten the reason they were together in the first place. The woman's ex might have showed up. But he hadn't, neither as a werewolf or just another human. She guessed that Dean and Sam hadn't had any luck either because they hadn't called. And with the moon no longer shining, it appeared that they were back to wondering who the werewolf might be.

A knock at the front door caused Tracee to halt her stretching. Humming, she turned and headed towards the entrance of the apartment. Her eyes glanced at the partially ajar doors that lead to Madison's bedroom. There hadn't been any movement, so Tracee took it upon herself to answer the door for her host. The knocking came again, louder than before, prompting her to walk a little quicker. She curled her fingers around the doorknob, noticing that the polish on her index finger had chipped. Sucking her teeth in disappointment—Madison had been very careful when she had done her nails, after all—Tracee opened the door.

She was surprised to find a flushed-face Sam Winchester on the other side. He pushed pass without a word of greeting. "Samuel…!" Tracee exclaimed in a whisper. "What's going on? Where's Dean?" Her lover did not answer. He only looked through the apartment, without word. Just as he was about to enter Madison's room, she intervened by grabbed his wrist before he could push open the door. "Sam!" Her voice caused him to flinch before he turned and faced her. "What  _happened_?

"Is Madison still here?" he asked.

"Yes, she's still sleeping!" Tracee pulled him away from the bedroom and into the kitchen. "Will you tell me what's going on now?" She released him and crossed her arms. "What's got you on edge?" Sam exhaled sharply through his nose.

"We found the werewolf," he stated. Both eyebrows rose in shock. She opened her mouth to question why hadn't she been called, but Sam continued speaking. "Or rather, the werewolf found Kurt. He's dead now. Me and Dean got there too late, and the werewolf attacked us. Dean's unconscious in the backseat of the car right now because he got slammed into a wall."

" _What_?!" Tracee barely kept her voice low enough. "How come you didn't call me?!"

"I didn't exactly have the time, Tracee! I had to drag Dean outta there before someone called the police because of all the noise," Sam retorted. "Tracee, its Madison." She only furrowed her brow in confusion. "The werewolf is Madison."

"… That… That can't be true," Tracee denied. "I was here all night. She's been sleeping."

"Have  _you_?"

"No!" she protested. Then she felt herself grimace. "Okay, I might have dozed off…" Sam rubbed furiously at his forehead, and released a frustrated puff of air. "But that was only for fifteen minutes. Maybe thirty. There's no way this werewolf is her."

"I  _saw_  her, Tracee. Dean got her with a silver knife," Sam said. "Right here, on her arm." He indicated where on his own arm. "It's there, Tracee. It's her. It makes sense, doesn't it?" Tracee opened her mouth, but Sam shook his head and turned around. Pressing her lips together, she followed after him. Once again, he was at the entrance to the bedroom. He pushed open the doors, revealing Madison still in bed, still sleeping. As if sensing their presence, Madison rolled over onto her back. She groaned lightly as she sat up. Blinking away the sleep, she focused on them.

"Morning…" she greeted. Then, upon noticing her state of dress—or lack thereof—Madison gathered the comforter around herself. "Detective Dante…!" she squeaked, cheeks turning scarlet. "Where's my pajamas?!" Because of her frantic movement, Tracee noticed the injury on her arm, right where Sam had told her it would be. Tracee nearly gasped at the sight. It wasn't as though she hadn't trusted Sam's words, but her mind had already cleared Madison. It didn't make sense that she-

And then, suddenly, Tracee saw the pattern. The three victims so far. Nate, the guy who had repeatedly sexually harassed her at work. That police officer, who had probably got in the way when she had been looking for Kurt. And finally the ex-boyfriend who hadn't let her be after she had broken up with him. All were threats. All were eliminated. Tracee swallowed hard, realization dawning on her. The sudden change in victimology had made sense now. She breathed out, shakily. Then she clenched her teeth, curling her fingers to form fists.

"Get some clothes on," Tracee told her, voice like granite. Seemingly confused, Madison frowned. For a little encouragement, Sam pulled his gun from the inside pocket of his jacket and it aimed at her. Her eyes widened in shock, surprise and fear both swirling together. Frantically, she shifted her gaze back to Tracee. She only stared back, unsympathetic. "You  _heard_  what I said." Sam cocked the gun for effect so that Madison knew it wasn't just a suggestion.

Later on, the three were all in the living room. Madison, now in a shirt and jeans, had been strapped down to one of the table's chairs. Her wrists were tied to the arms. Sam had taken a seat on top of the table, gun ready to fire at any provocation. He paid close attention to the werewolf in the room. Tracee, however, paced. Hands on her hips, she walked the length of the room. From the entrance to the bedroom to the opposite wall, and then back again. She had been scolding herself. She should have saw it from the beginning. Or, at least, during the middle.

Madison, herself, had told her things that pointed to her as a suspect. But now, she had chosen to remain tight-lipped. Even after Sam had told her the reason for the gun and rope. He had told her she was a dangerous creature, and yet she had said nothing. Nothing of them being crazy for believing such tales. Nothing of her ex-boyfriend's death. Nothing of the accusations that she had been responsible. Of course not because she had known all along. Her silence meant guilt. Tracee should have seen it, but she hadn't. She had been much too enthralled with the story of how a mild-mannered woman had endured and stood up to her abusive boyfriend before he had had a chance to become physically abusive. Her father would be so disappointed in her, falling for that  _sob story_.

Suddenly, there came a knocking at the door, stopping her thoughts. Tracee exhaled sharply through her nose. She glanced at Sam, who nodded his head, before making her way to the door. Not bothering to peek, Tracee opened the door wide. Sam had already checked the nearby apartments. There wasn't anyone around at the moment, and it was highly unlikely Madison would be receiving any visitors on the count that she killed them. Keeping the huff to herself, stepped to the side, allowing Dean Winchester into the apartment. Once he was inside, she shut and locked the door.

"Are you okay, Dean?" Tracee asked, arms sliding around him.

"Besides a little bump on the head, I'm fine," he assured her, returning the embrace. Their arms fell away at the same time. "Where is she?" Sighing, Tracee tilted her head towards the living room. Dean turned and headed in that direction and she followed. "Hey there, grandmother. What big teeth you have," he said in greeting. Madison only looked at him, eyes narrowed and frown on her face. "Not in the talking mood today? I guess that's understandable. I hear too many human hearts makes you queasy." Her expression twitched, but she still did not speak.

"You know they're not real detectives now, right?" Tracee snapped, folding her arms over her chest. "You don't actually have the right to remain silent! So  _talk_! What was the deciding factor in switching from snacking on women to the assholes in your life?"

"I didn't hurt any of those women!" Madison retorted.

"You're  _lying_ …!" Tracee hissed.

"Well, all of us seem to be good at that,  _aren't_  we?!" she shouted back. Called out, Tracee did not have a denial prepared. She had gotten good at lying since she had first left Ashland because what they did required it. Still, most of what she had told Madison yesterday had been the truth. Tracee had told her things that she hadn't even told Sam and Dean yet. "I don't know anything about Nate, or Kurt, or… or that policeman. I swear…"

"Then explain  _this_ ," Dean demanded, pressing the barrel of his gun to Madison's forearm.

"I don't know what that is," she said.

"That's funny, grandma, because I remember cutting into you after you chowed down on your ex's heart," Dean retorted. "Then, of course, you knocked me out. Thanks, by the way."

"I don't remember," Madison said.

"That's real convenient now, isn't it?"

"I'm not who you think I am. I'm not," Madison said, turning pleading brown eyes to Tracee. "I don't know about them. I don't remember."

"Look, I don't even know why we're talking about this," Dean said. "We know you're the werewolf. We know you're killing people. So we're here to put an end to that. End of discussion."

Dean cocked his gun, triggering sudden pandemonium. Madison's arms ripped free from the bindings. She gripped the arms of the chair for support, and then her right leg shot up. Her bare foot collided hard with Dean's abdomen. The impact threw him backwards into the nearby computer desk. Shouting his brother's name, Sam stepped forward and raised his gun. Madison reacted quickly by lifting both legs. She flipped over the back of the chair and landed on her feet. Sam fired off three shots, but Madison lifted the chair and the bullets harmlessly hit the underside of the seat. The chair was then hurled at Sam, and it was a direct hit. The younger Winchester toppled backwards, sliding across the table and taking it down with him to floor.

Tracee could only stare, lips parted in utter surprise. This skinny woman just took out two well fit men in under a minute. The strength she possessed should not have been possible, though. According to the handbook, werewolves could not access their supernatural abilities without the moon. Of course, it had mentioned the enhanced smell while human, but nothing else. Madison should not have been able to subdue Dean and Sam. Just what manner of breed was this werewolf? "Tracee, please…!" Madison began, holding her hands out, palms extended in her direction. "I don't want to hurt you!"

"Funny. The feeling's  _not_  mutual!"

Tracee struck, launching a straight jab at Madison. However, Madison deflected with her left arm, knocking the intended strike away. She immediately followed up by swinging her right arm. A swift right hook that was aimed at Tracee's face. She narrowly dodged the blow by taking a large step back with her left leg. Gritting her teeth, Tracee tried again. Three rapid punches aimed at Madison's face and chest. All were blocked or dodged. Madison swung around, backhanding Tracee with a hard fist. Tracee used the strike to spin, twisting her body and swinging her leg in a high kick. The top of her shoe smacked against Madison's cheek. Tracee then lifted her opposite leg, balancing on the other, to deliver rapid kicks to her opponent's side. Madison managed to block the one aimed at her side, but not the one to the gut.

She staggered backwards, coughing out. However, the brunette recovered quickly and went back at Tracee. She lifted her knee, but Tracee blocked the strike with her forearm. Madison extended her leg, managing to kick the side of Tracee's head. She stumbled back, putting just a bit of distance between them. Wincing, she attempted to ignore the ringing in her ear. Madison didn't give her time to try to work through it, anyway. She came at her again, fist coming fast. Tracee grabbed onto the arm, fingers curled around the wrist and elbow. She flipped Madison's body, slamming her back against the floor. She then shot her fist downward, intending to punch her foe's abdomen. However, Madison rolled on her shoulder to the right, completely dodging the powerful strike.

Her fist made a dent in the floor. Madison hurriedly stood. Tracee was already in the process of launching a straight kick. The sole of her shoe rammed against Madison's stomach, forcing her back. She hit the cushioned window seat and fell to the floor, ripping the curtains down on her way. Tracee moved closer, grabbing Madison's shoulders and pulling her up. Madison grabbed onto her as well, but she followed up with a vicious head-butt. Tracee's head snapped back. She groaned loudly, mildly disoriented by the pain. Still holding on, Madison jerked the both of them to the side.

The two woman went over the back of the couch, landing hard against the wooden coffee table. The combined weight broke the legs with Tracee taking the brunt of the impact because she had landed on the bottom. Nearly growling, Tracee pushed the woman off of her, and then kicked her in the face. Madison crashed into the couch, front exposed. Tracee stood, arms reaching for her, but Madison shot her leg out, giving a hard kick. Tracee could only bring her arms up in an X form to protect, but the force caused her to slam against the television behind her, cracking the screen. She barely had the time to dive to the side before Madison threw another punch. It completely shattered the television's screen.

Tracee swiftly rolled until she planted her feet. Then she twisted around, backhanding Madison. The strike caught her opponent jaw, throwing her back over the couch. Tracee followed after, jumping from the back. She tackled Madison, but the woman held her ground and grabbed Tracee by the arms. The two turned around and around, deadlocked and trying to gain an advantage, but they were seemingly of equal strength. Eventually, they crashed through the right entrance of the bedroom, wood breaking and glass shattering. They fell to the floor, and it took a moment to get back to their feet. Unceremoniously, they came together again. It was another bout of kicks and punches, dodges and blocks, and feints and deflects.

The two women fought all throughout the bedroom, smashing into furniture and destroying anything that got in the way. This was much more difficult than any previous fight Tracee had experienced. Were all werewolves like this? Or was Madison bitten by some higher level carrier of lycanthropy? Even if that was the case, it didn't explain why Madison hadn't transformed at all, but still had the strength of a supernatural creature. Tracee threw a punch forward, and then rapidly switched to an upper-cut. Madison's head sprung back and she crashed through the left set of doors.

Tracee went through the wrecked doors just as Madison pushed herself from the floor. Both women stood opposite of each other, fists clenched and poised to strike and defend at a moment's notice. However, before any moves could be made, Sam suddenly appeared behind Madison. He knocked her down with a sharp hit from his gun. She fell to her knees, grimace on her face. A second hit to the back of her head sent her crumbling to the floor unmoving. Tracee sighed heavily, both relieved and a bit disappointed. She shifted her eyes to Sam. With his free hand, he pressed a palm against his forehead.

"Why didn't you just shoot her?" Tracee asked, dropping her arms. Her eyes darted over to where Dean's unconscious body laid. He was going to be so pissed when he woke up. Knocked out twice in such a short amount of time wasn't his idea of a good time. Tracee went over to his body and propped him against the wall. Then she turned her attention back to her lover, who had not answered her. He, instead, was staring down at Madison's body. "Samuel…?"

"You…" His eyes moved from Madison to her. He frowned, visibly upset. "You don't know?"

"Know what?"

"Tracee… I think Madison's like  _you_ ," Sam said.

"…  _What_? Samuel, what the hell are you talking about?"

"I don't think she's a typical werewolf…"

"Sam," Tracee said his name in warning because he had yet to give her a straight answer.

"Tracee, I've never seen any werewolf move that. She moved like you. Like  _Jo_. I think she might be a  _Slayer_."

 

0-0

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dun! Dun! Dun!
> 
> I liked Madison. I'm mad that they didn't give her a last name and we barely got to know her. So! I decided to try and give her a chance for her personality to shine. I hope I accomplish that before the episode's done. Anyway, review/comment and tell me what you think so far, yeah?
> 
> On a side note, fight scenes are hard.


End file.
